


Neighbors

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Series: Neighbors [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-23 13:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8329192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Jack wonders about the attractive blond man he sees in the elevator.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a response to a Tumblr prompt. Nearly 4,000 words later ....  
> Part 2 is forthcoming.  
> As always, this is Ngozi's sandbox. I'm just playing in it.  
> Not beta'd so please let me know about any errors.

Jack rolled his neck and concentrated on relaxing his shoulders while he waited for the elevator. He did not look at his reflection in the lobby window, or try to see through the glass to the rain falling in sheets in the predawn darkness.

He knew he looked half-dead, pale and drawn with what he suspected would be a spectacular bruise blooming around the stitches in his jaw. His feet were wet just from walking to his car at the airport, his face throbbed and his shoulders ached. He couldn't get upstairs and into bed fast enough.

 _Crisse._ Why did he have to wait for the elevator now anyway? It was 4:30 in the morning. It should have been waiting right there in the lobby, ready to open the moment he pressed the button. Maybe he should have taken the stairs. But six flights up after a game in Dallas and flight home seemed like just too much.

Finally he heard the elevator car arriving and he bent to pick up his bag. He was still straightening up when he put his arms out to fend off the small blond man that nearly walked right into him.

By the time Jack's mind had processed what happened, the other man -- slender, shorter than Jack by half a head, with sleepy brown eyes and pink cheeks -- was stepping to the side, apologizing.

“Oh my gosh,” the man was saying. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect you to be there. I should be more careful.”

Jack dropped his arms and stepped to the other side. “No, sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be getting off.”

The man nodded, and said, “Well, anyway, good morning …” He paused and looked at Jack’s suit and bag and the way his damp hair curled around his ears. “Or good night for you?”

Jack chuckled and said, “Night for me. Morning for you, I think?” and stepped into the elevator.

**********************

Eric wondered if it would be too dramatic to actually sit down on the floor while he waited for the elevator. He had always been a baker, yes, but that was for friends and family, on his own terms. He wasn’t used to being responsible for running an actual bakery yet. When Matthew offered him the job as manager of his Providence business, Eric jumped at the chance. He’d worked for Matthew at the Boston location of Sugar ‘n’ Spice since graduation, but that was 10 until closing at 4, serving customers, prepping for the next day and -- what he was actually hired for -- running social media for Matthew’s bakeries.

Now, six months later, he was on his own in charge of the Providence location. Matthew had even helped him with housing, getting the previous bakery manager to allow him to sublet her apartment at a reduced rate. The former manager, Adrienne, hadn’t really needed the bakery job, Matthew explained. She was just doing it for experience before going to pastry school, and she’d be happy to have someone pick up at least most of the cost of her lease.

Eric loved the job. He liked being the first one there and the last one to leave, he liked the staff Adrienne had put together, he liked the customers. He enjoyed baking the favorites that Sugar ‘n’ Spice was known for, and he loved the freedom to try his own recipes.

But the schedule was killing him. Being there at 5 to start the baking for the 6:30 a.m. opening and staying until he turned the lock at 4:30 p.m. six days a week was too much. Matthew had told him to make his own schedule, and to make use of the staff who knew what they were doing. Chris Chow had been there for a year and a half and could close, Adrienne had told Matthew, and William Poindexter was responsible enough to open. 

The thing was, Eric wanted to make sure everything went well. He wanted to know what the bakery ran out of which days. Did the pretzel rolls sell out on Mondays? Was pecan pie more popular on Fridays? What did people buy in the morning compared to the afternoon?

Eric rolled his head on his shoulders and wondered if it would help to find some open ice somewhere and skate for a while. He was busy and exhausted, but maybe giving his body a challenge would help him feel like himself.

He was slouched in front of the elevator door when it opened and the man he saw that morning stepped out, dressed in warm up pants, a light sweatshirt and baseball cap. He looked like he’d slept, but the bruising around the cut on his face was darker. It must have been fresh this morning then.

Good Lord, he was even more attractive now, Eric thought. 

The man nodded and said something -- Eric had forgotten he had his earbuds in -- and was gone before Eric could take them out and say hello.

**************

Jack didn’t see the small blond man with the warm eyes for the next couple of weeks. That shouldn’t have been a surprise; Jack didn’t think he’d even recognize any of his other neighbors.

But he started running more in the late afternoons when it wasn’t a game day. He told himself that the timing was better for him, to help him be at peak energy in the evenings when he did have games. He was at least trying it. And if his eyes scanned the lobby every time the elevator door opened on his way out, well, who could make anything of that?

Finally, one day deep enough into November that the sun was already sinking by 5, Jack laced his trainers and pulled a toque over his ears before leaving his apartment. He walked to the elevator and found the man he saw before standing there, dressed in what looked like running tights but carrying a bag.

The man not only lived in his building -- he was on his floor.

Jack saw the button was already pushed. The door opened and Jack paused to let the other man enter first.

When the door closed, the man turned to look at him.

“Your face looks better now,” he said. “It looked like it hurt before,”

Jack shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Goes with playing hockey, right?” the man said.

So he did know who Jack was. Jack shrugged again. He thought he liked it better when he was anonymous.

“I was kind worried that day,” the man continued. “I mean, coming home at four in the morning with a face like that? Then heading out, what, for a run, the same day instead of spending the day resting with an ice pack and ibuprofen like a sane person? But then I saw your picture on a bus and it made sense. Anyway, I’m glad you’re better.”

The man stopped talking, and Jack said, “Thanks. I’m Jack.”

“I know, Mr. Zimmermann,” the man said with a smile. “I’m Eric. Eric Bittle.”

The elevator opened and Jack left on his run while Eric turned and walked to the bus stop on the corner.

Eric. Eric Bittle. Whose eyes and smile were warm and whose voice sounded like honey. Maybe anonymous wasn’t better after all.

After that, Jack found himself running into Eric more often. There was another early morning elevator meeting, when Jack was heading back from Chicago, and Jack saw Eric once or twice a week in the late afternoons, always in athletic clothes and always with the same bag slung over his shoulder.

They would smile and nod. The first time Eric said, “Hello, Mr. Zimmermann,” Jack corrected him.

“Call me Jack, Eric.”

Eric had smiled and said, “Well, then, hello, Jack.”

Jack thought about Eric more now than he had before he knew his name.

Where did he go early in the morning? Work? What kind of job started that early? And where did he go in the afternoon? Maybe to a gym, but Jack thought he would dress differently for an indoor workout. And his bag looked too heavy for just a change of clothes. Maybe with the black tights and the black jacket he was a cat burglar, and the bag held his tools. Jack laughed at himself. But really. Maybe he could follow him. But that would be creepy. Besides, how could he follow someone on the bus?

He could just ask him. But that would seem like an invasion of his privacy. More than following him? Jack shook his head. He couldn’t remember ever being so curious about anyone, but he wasn’t sure how to start a conversation. Most strangers he spoke with came up and talked to him. All Eric ever said was, “Hello,” or sometimes, “Nice game.” 

What did people talk about? The weather? Jack could say, “Nice day out there, eh?” Or, “Getting tired of all this rain?” But he was afraid if he tried, the wrong words would come out. He’d say, “Where are you from that you sound like that?” or “Where do you go so early in the mornings?” or “Why do you always smell like vanilla?”

All of those were too personal, Jack thought. Especially the last one.

*************************************

Chowder and Dex were getting tired of hearing about Jack Zimmermann.

After Eric had recognized him -- literally by seeing his face on the side of a bus Eric was boarding -- it had been a matter of mild interest in the bakery that Jack Zimmermann lived in Eric Bittle’s building.

After all, it wasn’t every manager of a small but successful bakery who could say he shared an address with a Stanley Cup winner.

But all too soon, it was clear that Eric might have, well, just a small crush on his neighbor. If “small” meant the size of Canada. Each morning when he came in, Eric told Chowder whether he had seen Jack the afternoon before. His conversation during the day was sprinkled with references to the Providence Falconers and their young captain. Before he left at 2:30 p.m., he shared his thoughts with Dex on the Falconers’ chances if they had a game or speculated on whether he could time his walk to the elevator to meet up with Jack.

Even Lardo, who managed the rink on Brown’s campus where Eric went to skate, was getting tired of it.

“Eric. Bits. Do you ever talk to him?” she said, while Eric laced up his skates and talked more about how amazing his neighbor was and what he’d done in the previous night’s game. 

“Sure, I say hello in the elevator,” Eric said. 

“No, I mean, like, have you asked him to come over for coffee? Or even to come see you at the bakery?” she asked. “Come on, Bitty. You know how to make friends, and I know you like this guy. Give it a shot.”

“Lardo, this isn’t Samwell,” Eric said. “Jack’s a professional hockey player. In the NHL. He’s almost certainly straight. I’m definitely not, and yes, I know I have a crush on him. But I also know that having him sit in my kitchen and eat my food will not help me get over that. Besides, it’s not like he really talks to me either. I think to him I’m just that weird neighbor who comes and goes at odd times.”

“But he’s still meeting you, right?”

“He’s not meeting me, he’s just going out for a run,” Eric said. “I doubt he thinks anything about it at all. Got the music for me?”

“Sure thing,” Lardo said, heading to the box. 

She had never thought, when she took the job managing the Samwell men's hockey team, that it would turn into, well, not a career, but a post-college job that helped pay the bills while she tried to make enough money with her art to do that full-time. But a fellow hockey manager at Brown had told her that the rink manager job at Meehan Auditorium was open, and Providence was cheaper than Boston and close enough to Cambridge, and maybe she could take some courses at the RISD. Then she found out Eric was moving to Providence, and it seemed like a good decision.

Five months in, it still seemed like a good decision. When Eric complained about the lack of opportunities to skate, she had offered him the free hour between 5:30 and 6:30 p.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and any other time that worked with his schedule. In return, he taught a beginning skating rec class for Brown students on Sunday afternoons. It worked out for everyone: Eric got a chance to work off the stress of his day job, the rink got a good teacher who could relate to the college students who felt more than a little foolish in the class and Lardo got regular access to Eric’s baked goods and an insight into just how good of a figure skater he had been. She doubted Shitty or any of the other boys Eric played with at Samwell had any clue.

Lardo would have to get Shitty to come up and watch one day if she could pry him away from the law library.

When Eric was done for the day, Lardo tried again.

“How do you know Zimmermann’s straight?” she said. “I know you Googled him. You know there were rumors.”

“I stopped looking when I saw something about the rumors about him,” Eric said. “That makes it even worse. It felt like an invasion of privacy to read that, and it makes it more likely he wouldn’t want to even be seen with me, even just hanging out. I mean, look at me.”

“Oh, so you can tell someone’s sexuality by looking?” Lardo challenged. “Did Shitty teach you nothing?”

“Of course not, not always,” Eric said. “But there is something to how people choose to present themselves, and I know that a lot of people look at me and think ‘gay.’ And that’s OK with me, because I am gay, and if I want to meet someone ...”

“Fine,” Lardo said. “But if I tell Shitty Jack Zimmermann is your neighbor, he’s gonna basically move into your apartment so he can worship at Zimmermann’s door. Best get beyond the ‘Hello’ stage before that happens, right?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

********************************

Jack kept up his routine of late afternoon runs on the days he was home and didn’t have a game, and more often than not, he managed to meet Eric at the elevator. It might have had something to do with the way he watched for Eric to pass his door through the peephole. He knew Eric knew which apartment was his; Eric had seen him come out more than once. He had Eric’s apartment narrowed down to one of two at the end of the hall. But he still hadn’t managed to move the conversation beyond small talk about the weather. At least he had managed that much.

Then one day Eric’s routine changed. At least it looked like it was changing. Instead of the dark sneakers Eric usually wore, there were bright silver trainers, and the black jacket was replaced with a windbreaker with wide stripes of reflective material. Eric looked like he was going for a run.

Jack wished Eric a good evening before Eric set off at an easy lope in the opposite direction from Jack’s usual route. Jack watched him, hesitated, and then followed about a half-block behind.

He wasn’t doing any harm running on a public street. Besides, Eric was probably just going to make a loop and head home. At least Jack could see him home safe before finishing his own run.

Five miles in, Jack realized that if he thought Eric’s run wouldn’t be enough of a workout, he’d been wrong. He’d known Eric was in good shape -- weeks of seeing him in those tights was enough to prove that -- and he gained a greater appreciation watching him run. Eric was moving at a good clip, and was finally coming around back towards their building. There was about a mile left when Eric turned a corner he wasn’t expecting and disappeared.

_Merde._

Jack turned the corner too but he didn’t see Eric. He slowed down and proceeded down the block, figuring he’d turn back if he hadn’t seen Eric by the next corner.

Just before the intersection, someone reached out and grabbed his arm.

Jack nearly shouted as he turned, ready to defend himself. He found himself face to face with Eric, standing in the open door of a small shop.

“Jack?” he was asking. “Why were you following me?”

*****************************

Eric was letting go of Jack’s arm by the time Jack turned around, holding his hands up in a “I won’t hurt you -- please don’t hurt me” pose.

Jack’s look of confusion gave way to embarrassment, but he said, “Who said I was following you? You went for a run, I went for a run.”

“Jack, you were behind me for five miles. And I know for a fact you usually go the other direction. I’ve seen you,” Eric said. He wasn’t scared any more. He really hadn’t been once he realized the steady steps behind him came from Jack. But he was a little upset that Jack thought following him would be a good idea.

Jack looked down at the pavement, where he still stood, then up at Eric, standing in the doorway. Finally he said, “I was curious.”

“About what?” Eric said. “My running pace?”

“No,” Jack said. “Well, yes, but not … But just, I wanted to know about you. Where you go early in the morning. Where you go in the afternoon. What you do.”

Eric wasn’t sure he was ready to let go of his anger just yet, but Jack’s awkwardness was melting any ice he wanted to keep in his tone.

“If you wanted to run with me, all you had to do was say so,” Eric said. “And those other questions? That’s information neighbors might share over a cup of coffee. So why don’t you come in and I’ll make you one.”

Jack took in where they were -- in the entry to a bakery, obviously closed for the night, but the door was open.

“Can we?” Jack asked.

“Sure,” Eric said. “This is where I come so early in the morning. It’s my bakery -- well, I manage it, at least, and I try to always be here to start the baking before we open. And I usually stop on the way home in the evenings to make sure everything’s OK and ready for the morning. But I’m sure we can find something to eat, and I keep a small coffee maker in the back.”

Eric stepped inside and closed and locked the door behind Jack, beckoning him past the counter to the kitchen. Eric filled the coffeemaker and then walked into a cooler, coming out with two small pies, not much bigger than cupcakes.

“Apple or peach?” Eric asked.

“Uh, apple,” Jack said. 

“Good choice,” Eric said, as he placed both in a warming oven. “Peaches are out of season.”

Eric leaned against the counter and looked at Jack without saying anything more until he poured two cups of coffee and put the mini-pies on plates.

“Come on, we can go sit in the front and you can tell me why following me seemed like a better idea than talking to me,” Eric said.

****************************

Jack stopped himself from moaning when his mouth closed around the first bite, but it was a near thing.

He chewed and swallowed before saying, “That’s phenomenal.”

He took another bite before saying, “Why are you doing this? I mean, I thought you were mad.”

“I was,” Eric said. “But I’m pretty sure you weren’t planning to jump me, or trying to scare me.”

“No,” Jack said. “Jump you? Why would I even …? I just wanted to know more about you, more than I get from sharing the elevator, and I didn’t know how to ask, and then you were out there running, in public, and I didn’t think you’d go that far, and I thought when you turned I could just keep going. _Crisse._ This is why I don’t talk.”

Eric looked at him a moment longer, and then said, “I’m doing this because this is how people get to know each other. They sit down, and maybe have something to eat or drink, and talk to each other. Instead of, y’know, following someone for five miles.” 

This time Eric smiled. He'd been frightened for a few moments, felt his breath hitch when he realized those footsteps were still behind him, three blocks and a turn later. He knew people probably didn't think he could hear with his earbuds in, but he kept his music low when he ran outside. He only dimly noticed the steps at first -- it was a busy street, and there were plenty of runners in Providence -- but as he got further from the main road and the traffic quieted, it seemed like the steady thump-thump behind him was drowning out the beat of the music. Finally, making another turn, Eric had been able to sneak a glimpse and recognized his hot hockey-player neighbor. By the time he ambushed Jack, he was equal parts annoyed and intrigued. 

“Were you really afraid I'd hurt you?” Jack asked. What was that look on his face? Confused? Hurt? Offended?

“Well, not once I knew it was you,” Eric said. “But when you grow up in Georgia looking like, well, me, and figure skating to boot, you learn to watch your back.”

“Wait -- you’re a figure skater?” Jack asked.

Eric looked down at the table this time.

“I used to be,” he said. “Now I'm more a baker -- or bakery manager -- who figure skates. I usually go to the rink this time of day -- the manager at Meehan is a friend -- but they have some youth hockey tournament in town this week, so the ice wasn't available.”

“Sounds like you're still a skater,” Jack said. 

“Not really,” Eric said. “I haven't had a coach since I quit when I was 15. I went to junior regionals that year.”

“Why’d you stop?” Jack asked.

Jack's interest felt genuine, not intrusive, so Eric answered, “We moved and I started a new school. I didn’t want the kids to get the same idea the kids in my old school had, and it was further from my coach. It just seemed more important to try to fit in. There was a co-ed hockey club team, so I did that.”

“But you still missed figure skating?” Jack pursued.

“Every day,” Eric said.

“Do you regret it?”

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “I mean, I went to college on a hockey scholarship, and that got me out of Georgia, and I have some great friends. And having somewhere else to live, that gave me the courage to come out to my parents, and that didn't go as badly as it could've. But I always wondered how good I could have been.”

“You played hockey?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, I got that a lot,” Eric said. “And I wasn't really that good. I was always afraid of being checked. But usually they couldn't catch up to me.”

Eric stood and carried the dishes back into the kitchen. Jack followed him and said, “If you want to skate this week, I could probably get you on the ice. Our practice rink is usually empty by five.”

“You’d do that?” Eric asked. 

“It’s the least I can do after the pie and coffee,” Jack said. “But I'd probably have to come with, at least the first time.”

“As long as you don't follow me all the way there,” Eric chirped.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Eric spend more time together.

Eric was keeping one ear out for the timer -- a batch of pumpkin muffins was due to come out in about three minutes, if his nose didn’t deceive him -- while he nestled a dozen cupcakes for someone’s office birthday party into a box.

Cupcakes were not his favorite thing to make by a long shot. The cake part could be good, he acknowledged to himself, but so many stores and bakeries overwhelmed the cake with mountains of cloyingly sweet frosting, making it impossible to even taste the cake properly. Maybe it was because the actual cake in their cupcakes wasn’t worth tasting. Anyway, never mind trying to pack them in a bakery box.

Since he’d arrived at Sugar ‘n’ Spice, Eric had insisted on reducing the volume of frosting to make it more of an accent to the cupcakes, and he thought it had gone over well. None of the staff had complained, and the customer who ordered these made a point of saying that she didn’t want too much frosting. 

The cupcakes were a mix of red velvet, chocolate and lemon. Eric thought they were all good, but he’d bet the chocolate ones would go first. People tended to like the familiar, after all.

His musings were interrupted by Chowder pushing through the door from the front, saying, “There’s someone asking for you, Bitty.”

As the door closed behind him, Chowder continued in a stage whisper, “I think it’s Jack Zimmermann. You think he’s going to come here all the time now?”

“All right,” Eric said. “Can you finish this and check the muffins when the timer goes? If you have a minute, you can add the glaze to the doughnuts. They should be cool by now.”

“Sure thing!” Chowder said, making Eric smile at his enthusiasm. 

He was still smiling when he pushed through the door, finding Jack waiting near the register, in black track pants, a T-shirt and a gray hoodie. Eric was beginning to suspect Jack owned nothing but athletic clothes and the suits he wore to travel with the team. He was also starting to wonder how Jack made a wardrobe like that look good.

“Hi,” Eric said. “Can I get you something?”

Jack frowned briefly and said, “Uh, I didn’t really come to eat. I came in to talk to you.”

“That’s OK,” Eric said. “I wasn’t meaning that you should buy something. Just, if you’re hungry, you could have something while we talk. Maybe a cup of coffee?”

“That would be good,” Jack said. “Black. And maybe a couple of those little muffins?”

Jack was indicating the cranberry-bran mini-muffins that tended to be popular with health-conscious customers.

“Absolutely,” Eric said, pouring coffee from the urn and plating two of the mini-muffins. “What’s up?” 

“Well, I talked to the team management and they said you can practice at our rink this week if you want, but you have to sign a waiver. I have it here,” Jack said, putting a creased paper down on the counter.

“No problem,” Eric said. “So it’s OK otherwise?”

“The other thing is that Rick -- the zamboni guy? -- he has to leave by seven tonight, and he’s not going to be around before morning skate tomorrow, so he said you’d have to get off by 6:45 or so,” Jack said. “But that should give you plenty of time if you’re ready to leave by quarter to five.”

“Leave by …” Eric was trying to follow where Jack was getting the times from. Of course. That was the time he usually left for Meehan. “Four forty-five is fine,” he said. “I usually leave here at 2:30 -- I used to stay ‘til close, but that was too much for me. I can even get a nap in if I leave then. But the zamboni guy -- is he staying late for me?”

Jack considered, and said, “I’m not sure. I’m not usually at the rink when he leaves, but he didn’t seem to mind.”

Eric didn’t think that should be endearing, but it was. Jack didn’t brush off the question; he thought about it (he got the most adorable furrows in his forehead) and answered it honestly, even though it might not be what Eric wanted to hear.

“Well, what time does he usually come in?”

“He’s usually there for the end of morning skate, maybe 11 or so,” Jack said.

Then if the zamboni driver was staying late, it probably wasn’t by too much.

“You don’t happen to know what kind of pie he likes, do you?” Eric asked.

“No,” Jack said. “But that apple pie you gave me last night was really good.”

“That was a mini-pie, but we’ve got plenty of apples,” Eric said. “I’ll make him an apple pie this afternoon to thank him. How do I get to the rink?”

Goodness, was Jack blushing? Because Eric asked for directions?

“Uh, meet me by the elevator?” he said. “I have to be there anyway, so I can drive you. Or, you could drive if you wanted.”

“I don’t have a car, so you can drive,” Eric said brightly, hoping he didn’t have hearts in his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to fall for his neighbor. His probably (maybe not definitely?) straight neighbor who had the most gorgeous smile and was so unbelievably awkward, but seemed to want to be friends.

Well. It wouldn’t make getting over his crush easier, but Eric would sooner eat a Hostess apple pie than tell Jack to keep his distance.

**********************************

Jack left the bakery feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

Eric was going to come with him to the rink this afternoon. He’d get to see him skate. Maybe he could skate with him a little bit? It wouldn’t be the same; to the best of his knowledge, he’d never even worn figure skates. Maybe he could get Eric to wear hockey skates for a bit?

He’d been embarrassed the night before when Eric said it was strange to follow someone for that long. He hadn’t meant to make Eric uncomfortable; he just was curious, and he didn’t know how to start a conversation.

Eric made it seem so easy. Of course he could have said, one day in the elevator, “Want to get coffee some time?” or even, “Want to come over and watch something and have a beer?”

But Jack hadn’t really done that with anybody who wasn’t on his team, and most of the people he knew who didn’t play hockey either worked for the team or were fans, people who always wanted more of his life, more of him than he was willing to give them. Not all the fans, of course. Most of the ones he met, even the ones who approached him, were polite and friendly and supportive, but the others … they’d made Jack wary, maybe too wary, of people outside the world of hockey.

Eric hadn’t pursued him at all, Jack thought, first with satisfaction, then with a little guilt. Had he treated Eric the way those overzealous fans treated him? Assuming he had the right to more of Eric than Eric wanted to give? And Eric had said something about being afraid. But he didn’t seem angry, at least not any more. And Jack was getting him ice time. There really was no better way to a skater’s heart.

*********************************

Eric thought it was ridiculous the way his heart was beating when he left his apartment, two pie boxes balanced on one hand as he checked to make sure the door was locked.

He saw Jack’s door was ajar, probably waiting for him, so Eric angled his steps that way instead of straight to the elevator. He tapped lightly on the door with his knuckles and waited for Jack to open the door further to say, “Ready?”

Eric held up the pies.

“One of these is for you,” he said. “Do you want to leave it here?”

“Oh, uh, thanks, Eric, but I can’t eat a whole pie,” Jack said. “The nutritionists would kill me.”

“You don’t have to eat it all at once,” Eric said. “It’ll keep about a week, or longer if you freeze it. Or you can share it. I don’t mind.”

Jack looked at the box, suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of apples and cinnamon and was that maple?

“Well, I can at least have one slice, eh?” he said. “Then I can take the rest to practice?”

“Fine with me,” Eric said, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder.

“I meant to ask,” Jack said, “you have hockey skates in there too? I thought that if there’s time, we could run some drills together.”

“You want to run drills with me?” Eric asked. “You -- Mr. Captain of the Providence Falconers NHL team -- want to run drills with me, four-shifts-a-game at Samwell University Eric Bittle?”

“Yes?” Jack said. “I thought it would be fun. And you said checking was your problem, but we won’t be doing that.”

Eric shrugged. “OK,” he said. “But let me grab my skates and my stick. I doubt y’all have anything at the rink short enough for me.”

Jack left the pie on the counter and closed his apartment door behind him, following Eric to his end of the hall. His apartment was the one on the left. Jack stood in the entryway of a small studio while Eric rooted in the closet, coming out with a stick and well-worn hockey skates,

“You sure those aren’t youth-sized?” he chirped.

“Ha. Ha,” Eric said, but he smiled. “Actually, I played in juniors skates through most of high school. My folks weren’t happy when I got to men’s sizes and the price doubled.”

“Really?” Jack said.

“Why would they be happy about spending an extra couple of hundred dollars for basically the same skates, just a little bigger?” Eric asked.

“No, I mean, the price really goes up that much?” Jack asked. He couldn’t remember ever being concerned about the cost of his equipment. 

“Yeah, really,” Eric said. “No pads, right?”

“No pads. You might want a helmet, but we have extras,” Jack said.

**************************************

Jack enjoyed the 10-minute drive to the practice rink, sitting next to Eric in the car.

They were quiet, but it was comfortable enough. He pulled into the player’s lot, using his key card, and held the door open for Eric. 

“Do you need to go to the locker room to change?” he asked.

“No,” Eric said. “I’ve got my skating clothes on. I just need to change to skates and get this jacket off.”

Jack led the way to the benches, where Bitty pulled out his phone and a portable speaker. 

“I didn’t know if we’d have access to a sound system, so I brought this so I can hear my music,” he said. 

“I didn’t think to ask,” Jack said. “I’m pretty sure there is a sound system, but I don’t know how to use it.”

“That’s all right,” Eric said. “This is only for a few days anyway.”

Jack didn’t think he should be as disappointed as he was to be reminded of that. Anyway, they were becoming friends, he thought. Even if Eric didn’t have to come to skate here, they still lived only a few meters apart. 

“Do you mind if I watch?” Jack asked, mindful of what Eric said the night before.

“Lord, no,” Eric said. “I’ve had more people watch me skate than I care to think about. But really, most of it is just practice. I might run through a routine at the end, just for fun.”

“That’s all right,” Jack said. “I don’t mind. I thought I’d go up to the gym and get some cardio in, but I can see through the windows. I didn’t want it to seem creepy.”

Eric grinned. 

“That’s all right. And I know Rick is here too. But thanks for telling me.”

Jack watched Eric skate onto the ice, now in tights, a snug black T-shirt and black gloves, and noted the way his posture changed to something that managed to be straight and strong and fluid and graceful at the same time. Then he headed up to the workout room. The ellipticals, he thought, would give him the best view.

He heard the music start when he was headed up the stairs, and by the time he climbed onto the elliptical and looked out over the ice, Eric was doing a series of complicated steps that made his skate blades flash.

Eric did footwork for a bit, then started a series of spins. In one of them, he had his left leg extended so far up behind him that he could grab his skate blade over his head. He was spinning so fast that the light caught his hair and made it look like it was throwing sparks. Jack thought he was really too breathless for the level of effort he was putting into his cardio.

After circling the ice picking up speed, Eric launched himself into a twisting, spinning jump, and Jack admitted to himself that as good as it would be to be friends, he’d really like to be more with Eric. Something about the way he flung his body -- flung his whole self -- into the air, with a smile Jack could see from here, all energy and motion and holding nothing back -- yeah, Jack wanted that.

He finished his cool down and went back downstairs, zipping his hoodie before he stepped out behind the bench. Eric was headed for the side.

“Oh, Jack, great,” he said. He picked up his phone, did something to the screen and then handed it to Jack. “Can you press play when I get set in the middle of the ice? Thanks.”

Then he skated off, and Jack waited for him to come to a stop and hold his pose. He heard chords that sounded familiar, then piano and clapping, and woman’s voice, singing, “Remember those walls I built ...” and then he didn’t notice anything but Eric, combining the moves Jack had seen earlier but now seeming to float as he glided over the ice.

***********************************

Eric held his pose, counting the beats until Beyonce’s voice came in and he pushed off into a slow spin, gradually gaining speed as the music gained force. This was the routine he’d taken to the junior regionals -- at least, a modified version of it. He’d have to do more than practice three times a week on his own to get back to that level of proficiency. But he’d always loved the song, always felt confident when he skated to this music, and he wanted every bit of that confidence now.

He was skating in an NHL practice rink, with a man he found very attractive and who seemed, on recent acquaintance, to be a bit of a sweet dork, standing with his elbows on the boards watching him.

He didn’t know whether Jack wanted to be friends or more, he didn’t even know if Jack liked men, or if he did, how comfortable he would be with being in a relationship with a man. Eric’s experience with male athletes who played team sports was not encouraging, on balance, despite the acceptance and affection he had found with Samwell Men’s Hockey. That team, with Shitty’s rants about gender roles and heteronormativity, Ransom and Holster (whatever their relationship was) trying to find boys for Eric to date … that was the exception.

But Jack seemed to want to spend time with him, and Eric wanted that. If he skated to “Halo” fantasizing about a romantic relationship with Jack, well, he could keep that to himself.

The music ended with Eric in the same pose as when he started, then he skated to the side while Jack applauded.

“That was amazing,” Jack said. “I can see why you missed it. You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” Eric said. “I mean, I’m not as good as I was, but it’s still my favorite way to get exercise.”

“Why don’t we see what you can do in hockey skates?” Jack said. “We still have about 20 minutes.”

So Eric bent down and unlaced his figure skates before pulling on the hockey skates. It took a moment for his feet to feel comfortable -- the boots held his feet entirely differently -- but by the time he had lapped the rink once he was skating easily.

Jack came back from the locker room, taller in skates, carrying a blue helmet and a pair of hockey gloves.

“You might want these too,” he said. “I found them in the equipment room. They’re not too rank -- not many guys have hands that small.”

Eric put the helmet on and pulled on the gloves, thankful that he had hand sanitizer in his bag. One thing he didn't miss about hockey was the way the equipment smelled.

Then Jack was pulling a net onto the ice and hoisting a bucket of pucks over the boards, and they were skating up ice, passing a puck back and forth until one of them shot it into the net. Then they were cycling in front of the net, passing each other pucks for attempted one-timers, and finally racing around the rink, a race Eric won, but not by much.

 _“Crisse,”_ Jack said, his face open and smiling and his eyes sparkling in a way Eric hadn’t yet seen. “You’re really fast, and you can handle a stick.”

Eric smiled back and said, “Thanks. That was a lot of fun.”

They moved the net off the ice and picked up the pucks. Then Jack said, “Did you bring clean clothes? We can shower here if you want, then get something to eat?”

***********************

Eric felt himself freeze for just a moment. He did have clean clothes -- he usually changed after skating because he took the bus home, and really, no one should be subjected to that -- but showering in a locker room with Jack?

After four years of college hockey, Eric was no stranger to locker rooms. He knew how to keep his eyes to himself and be politely uninterested in anyone else’s state of undress. But that was with his hockey team, boys who were like brothers, all in a pack together. Alone with the person he’d been crushing on, the one he’d just been fantasizing about as he listened to the words of Beyonce -- that would be harder.

But he could do it, Eric told himself. 

“Sounds good,” he said. “I have clothes in my bag.”

“Good,” Jack said. “I’ll show you the locker room, and then you can shower while I go put this equipment away.”

Well. That would be easier. So why was Eric disappointed?

The locker room was nicer than any Eric had been in, with carpeting and everything. The showers had individual stalls, so that wouldn’t have been as much of a problem as Eric thought. He opened his bag and stripped down, wrapping a towel around his waist to make his way to the shower. He heard Jack return to the locker room while he dried off, and he passed Jack -- also clad in a towel, also carefully not looking -- as he made his way back to the bench where he left his bag.

Eric was wearing his best skinny jeans, a clean T-shirt and a bright flannel with the sleeves rolled up by the time Jack returned, his skin now rosy and damp.

Eric swallowed.. 

“I’ll just wait outside,” he said.

Jack had emerged only a few minutes later, dark hair still damp and curling around his ears. He was wearing another pair of track pants and a fleece jacket, lending further evidence to Eric’s suspicions about his wardrobe. He wondered what it would be like to take Jack shopping for clothes. That physique wouldn't be the easiest to fit, but a nice-fitting pair of jeans wrapped around Jack's backside? Eric might actually pay to see that.

Anyway, if this was how Jack was dressed, they weren’t going anywhere fancy. Probably not intended to be a date, then. Just two bros grabbing a bite after a workout. Eric could deal.

*************************************

Jack had been dressing and undressing in front of other boys since he was 10 years old. It had never been a problem, not even with Parse when they were … whatever it was they were. But he’d seen Eric hesitate when he suggested cleaning up and getting food, and he remembered that Eric started as a figure skater, a solo athlete who might not be used to the unthinking intimacy of team life. He’d played hockey, sure, but even so, he might not be comfortable without more privacy. Jack had occasionally met players like that, and it was fine. Jack could give him a few minutes, making sure to make enough noise when he came back to the locker room so Eric would know he was there.

What Jack didn’t expect was the relief he felt when he came back from the shower to find Eric fully dressed -- how did he get those jeans on? -- and Eric announced that he would wait outside. However Eric felt, Jack was used to being naked in front of other people. He’d even posed for ESPN’s body issue. Objectively, he knew other people liked the way his body looked. He couldn’t quite see it, but he did appreciate the way his body worked. So why did he feel shy about it front of Eric?

Because you want him to look at you, his mind helpfully supplied. You want him to want to touch you, and that’s not something that happens in a locker room. It could, he answered himself. But not now. He didn’t even know if Eric would want that with him.

Eric was gay, he was almost sure, from the way he talked about growing up and his family and his decision to leave Georgia, and the way Eric looked at him sometimes. … But Eric hadn’t pursued him, hadn’t done anything besides pour him a cup of coffee and serve him a piece of pie. And based on the very limited time they’d spent together, Jack was pretty sure Eric would feed just about anyone who crossed his path.

In any case, Eric seemed willing enough to spend time with him, so he would do that. If they ended up as friends, well, it would be good to have a friend who didn’t live and die with hockey.

Jack zipped his fleece and headed to the hallway to find Eric.

“There’s this little fish place -- just a little shack really -- down by the river,” Jack said. “They make the best fish tacos. We can pick some up and then go home and have some pie, if you want.”

“Sure thing,” Eric said. “Just, can we stop by the bakery first? Only for a few minutes. I want to make sure everything’s set to rights for morning.”

“Of course,” Jack said. He didn’t open the door of his truck for Eric, but it was a near thing.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric goes to a Falconers game. And bakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating moved to T because Shitty can't talk without swearing.

“How did it go last night?”

Eric shook himself out of the reverie he’d fallen into over the worktop to see Chowder standing in the kitchen door. He hadn’t even heard the front door chime.

“It was good,” Eric said. “The rink had beautiful ice.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Chowder said. “Do you like him? Does he like you back? He must.”

“I don’t know about that,” Eric said. “After we skated, we picked up dinner and ate at his apartment, so I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mind spending time with me. But I like spending time with you, too, Chowder, and I don’t think that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yeah, but he skated with you? And then you ate together? Sounds like it went pretty well to me.”

“If you say so,” Eric said, pulling a tray of scones out of one oven and replacing them with muffins, then starting to frost the carrot cake that he’d baked earlier this morning.

A half dozen loaves of bread were doing their second rise on a shelf near the ovens, and there were dozens of items needing a variety of icing and frosting and glaze.

Eric set to work while he continued to ruminate on the evening before. They’d returned to their building, and Eric had gone to stow his skates and other gear in his apartment before going to Jack’s, which was easily three times the size of Eric’s. 

There were plates and cutlery on the coffee table. Jack offered Eric a beer, which Eric accepted, but when Jack came out of the kitchen, he was carrying water for himself.

Jack had put on a hockey game, but it didn’t look like even he was too invested in the contest between the Hurricanes and the Blue Jackets. During commercial breaks and intermissions, Jack had talked to Eric, or, rather, asked Eric questions.

“I can see why you miss figure skating,” he’d said. “You’re really good. Did you ever want to go back to it, competitively, I mean? Was it hard to get used to hockey skating?” 

And, “How long have you been baking? Who taught you?”

And, “How did you choose Samwell? Did it scare you to go so far from home?”

And, “What was your college team like? Why do you think being checked was so frightening for you? Did anyone help you with that?”

It didn’t seem like Jack was trying to pry. He just wanted to know all about Eric. So Eric had answered most of the questions, sometimes rambling for minutes at a time (He was fairly certain Jack could have picked the members of Samwell Men’s Hockey out of a lineup by the end of the night, and Eric was always happy to relive the sunny afternoons he’d spent in Moomaw’s kitchen) and sometimes deflecting (Jack didn’t really need to know how often Eric had been slammed into the high school lockers, most often with gay slurs and the laughs of other students echoing in his ears. He didn’t want Jack to think he was pathetic).

But Jack rarely offered a glimpse behind the facade he showed the world. Only once, when he was asking about college, did the mask slip. “Was it really hard, or really a lot of partying, like in the movies?” he asked.

“Well, it was hard for me,” Eric had said. “And there was a lot of partying, but it wasn’t like the movies. It was really great for me, because it really gave me a chance to grow into myself.”

“I always wondered what it would be like to go to college,” Jack said softly.

Eric’s heart heart melted a little. How old had Jack been when he started playing in the NHL? 19? 20? What must that have been like, to have the hopes of a team riding on your shoulders when you were too young to even buy a drink?

“Do you know what you would study?” Eric asked instead.

“History,” Jack replied without hesitation. “It’s always fascinated me, the different way you look at things that happened and trace patterns. Especially the time around World War II.”

“You could still go,” Eric said. “I mean, after …”

“After I retire?” Jack said. “It wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be like going after high school, and being with people my age, and maybe being on a team and sharing a house like you did.”

Eric had to admit that it would be different. “But you wouldn't have to worry about keeping your grades up or staying on the team to stay in school, either,” he said. “I mean, after the NHL, it might not be too exciting, but maybe it wouldn't be too stressful.”

Jack had turned back to the game and Eric wondered if he'd said something wrong. As soon as the game ended, Eric had made his excuses.

“I have to be at work early, so it's past my bedtime.”

Jack stood up and walked him to the door, but only opened it and said, “Thanks for coming over. We can't skate tomorrow -- I have a game -- but maybe another time?”

“Anytime you want,” Eric said. “Thanks for letting me on the ice, and for dinner. See you around?”

There had been no handshake, no bro-hug, certainly not a kiss goodnight. But some parts of the evening had felt like a date. Some had felt more like a job interview, but those were not the parts his mind lingered on when he fell asleep. Did Jack like him like that? He just wasn’t sure.

************************************

Jack felt a little self-conscious carrying a pie with two slices missing into the practice facility the next morning. 

He left it on a table in the players’ lounge with a note for his teammates to help themselves, then went to talk to George. He was pretty sure she could still get him tickets for tonight's game. They probably wouldn't sell out on a Thursday night in mid-December.

When he returned to the locker room, he was accosted by teammates who wanted to know why he had three quarters of a pie.

“It's great, Jack,” Marty said. “But you're not one to go buy yourself a pie.”

“And there are _two_ slices missing,” Thirdy added.

“I didn't buy it,” Jack said. “A friend made it. He made one for Rick too.”

“A _friend_?” Thirdy said. 

Jack couldn't really blame him. He rarely spoke about non-hockey friends because, well, he didn't really have any.

“And what did Rick do to get a pie?” Marty asked.

“He's my neighbor,” Jack said. “The one who made the pie, not Rick. And he was thanking me and Rick for getting him time on the ice to practice his skating, because he got bumped from his regular rink.”

“Zimmboni, you trying to find ways to get more skating practice than us?” Tater chimed in. “Just your friend skated, or you too?”

“I, uh, I only skated for a few minutes,” Jack said. “After he was done with his figure skating.”

“Sure, Jack, get Rick to stay for your friend then use it for extra skating,” Marty said. “We see your game.”

“It wasn't like that,” Jack said. “He played college hockey and we just passed the puck around.”

“And then he stayed to have pie,” Thirdy said. “Sure.”

Marty shot Thirdy a look, and said, “Thanks for bringing the leftovers in.”

“You bring baker in?” Tater said. “Maybe he make us more pie.”

Jack finished lacing his skates and was saying, “I don't know …” when George poked her head in.

“Good, you're still here, Zimmermann. Those extra tickets you wanted? No problem. Just let the box office know how many.”

Tater just looked at him and grinned.

*************************

Chowder was taking off his apron and getting ready to leave when the door chimed and he elbowed Dex, whose shift had just started.

“That's him!” Chowder whispered, loudly enough that the tall man who had just come in was sure to have heard. 

“Who?” Dex said, looking over. “Oh.”

“Mr. Zimmermann,” Chowder said. “Can I get you something? Or do you want to talk to Bitty?”

“Uh, could I get a cup of coffee? Black?” he asked, pulling his wallet out. Only after he had his coffee and paid -- including a generous contribution to the tip jar -- did he say, “Could you ask if Eric can talk to me now?”

“Sure thing,” Chowder said. “I'll get Bitty.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Jack alone in the front with Dex, who nodded and then went back to wiping down tables without a word.

Eric was smiling when he came out, now sure that whatever little bump they hit last night had not derailed a promising friendship.

“I didn't expect you today,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Um, Chris? Chowder? He got me coffee already,” Jack said. “I just wanted to ask if you’re free tonight.”

Eric was perplexed. That sounded like an invitation for a date (so maybe Jack _did_ want to date him?) but he knew for a fact that the Falconers had a game, and therefore Jack would be busy, being the Falconers captain and public face and all. Maybe he needed someone to do something that had to be tonight, like pick someone up at the airport? Maybe he needed someone to pick up a _girlfriend_. But wouldn’t Jack have mentioned that last night? 

Suddenly aware that he was taking way too long to answer a simple question, Eric felt himself blush and shook his head. “No, no plans for tonight, except for maybe watching the game on TV. Do you, uh, need me to do something for you?”

“Maybe you could come to the game instead of watching it on TV?” Jack said. “I checked and there's still tickets. They usually give players tickets to give to friends and family, but I hardly ever use them, unless my parents are in town, and my dad really doesn't need my help to get into a hockey arena, eh?”

Jack stopped and took a breath. “Anyway, if you want to come, you could bring someone. I just have to let them know how many tickets to leave at the box office.”

Eric felt like he had to take a breath. He hadn't been to a Falconers game in person since he'd moved to Providence. Just paying the (reduced) rent on his apartment took up most of his paycheck, and hockey tickets weren't in the budget. But here was a chance to see the game up close, and to maybe treat a couple of friends -- huge hockey fans -- who had helped him out over the years.

“Yeah, that would be great. Let me just call Lardo and see if she can make it, and maybe Shitty too? If there are only two tickets, they can have them. Can you wait a few minutes? Get you something to eat?”

“You can have three tickets,” Jack said. “And no, I cheated enough yesterday.”

“Something I can make you for later?”

“Really, I’m fine. I just had lunch at the rink, and all I usually eat before a game is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” Jack said. 

“Then at least let me give you some decent bread,” Eric said. “And I’ll bring over some of my mama’s strawberry preserves when I get home.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Jack said. “Just text me when you know how many tickets.”

************************

Jack was still shaking his head when he walked into his apartment and put the loaf of whole wheat bread Eric had thrust at him on the counter. It seemed that being friends with Eric would mean a constant supply of baked goods.

That had gone well, he thought. He’d wanted to offer Eric the chance to bring someone because it would be more fun for him to have friends to sit with, but also because he wanted to see if Eric invited anyone special. Jack was pretty sure Eric was single -- he would have mentioned someone last night if he’d had a boyfriend, Jack thought --but he wanted to be sure. Which told Jack that he was thinking more seriously about asking Eric out than he had admitted to himself before this.

Inviting Lardo and Shitty was fine. Jack had heard all about them last night, and he knew that Eric thought there was something beyond platonic between the two of them, although Eric said he couldn’t quite name it. He knew Shitty was the first person Eric had come out too -- he’d seen the look Eric darted at him when he said that, knowing he was coming out to Jack in sharing it -- and Lardo had been a lifeline when when he played hockey, and that she was his connection at Meehan.

He’d learned so much about Eric last night. He felt like he knew him better now, knew him well enough to be pretty sure he’d want to come to the game tonight.

His phone buzzed as he stripped out of his pants and settled onto his bed in his T-shirt and boxer briefs.

_Lardo and Shitty will come!! Thanks so much, Jack!!!_

Then there was a string of little pictures of smiley faces, hockey sticks and pies.

 _Great,_ Jack texted back. _I’m going to take a nap now. See you later maybe?_

 _If you want,_ Eric responded _. I know Shitty wants to meet you. I’ll leave the preserves outside your door so I don’t wake you._

 _Just make sure Shitty’s wearing pants,_ Jack said. Then he put his phone face-down on the nightstand and let himself doze off.

**********************************

Eric was ready and waiting in the lobby when Shitty and Lardo pulled up in Shitty’s car, a 1999 Toyota Corolla with 183,000 miles. He checked as he squeezed into the back seat; Shitty was indeed wearing pants.

“So, Bits, how did you end up besties with Jack Zimmermann?” Shitty asked as he pulled out. “I mean, you’re a fucking ray of sunshine, and he’s best known as a Canadian hockey robot. Even if he is an Adonis of the north.”

“He’s not a robot!” Eric protested, thinking of the variety of expressions he had seen on Jack’s face. “He might be a little … shy, maybe? But he’s been very kind to me.”

“So I hear,” Shitty said. “Getting you on the ice and giving you tickets? Should I be asking his intentions?”

“It's not like that, Shitty,” Eric insisted. “He's just being neighborly.”

“So he's given tickets to everyone in your building?” Shitty asked. 

“Does he follow them when they run, too?” Lardo chimed in.

“Brah, did he do that?” Shitty asked. “I'm not sure that's cool.” 

Eric momentarily regretted sharing that with Lardo. 

“It's fine, Shitty,” he said. “He's just kind of … socially awkward? But it ended up with coffee and pie, so it worked out.”

“Whatever you say, Bits, whatever you say,” Shitty said.

When Eric got the tickets and led Shitty and Lardo to seats two rows back, just off the glass at the end of the Falconers bench, Shitty shot him a look and said, “Neighborly. Right.”

Lardo just smirked.

Then the teams skated out for warmups, and Jack smiled when he saw Eric, and Eric’s face split into a blinding grin.

“Wish I had neighbors like that,” Lardo said. 

“He is a magnificent specimen of a hockey player,” Shitty acknowledged.

They settled in to watch the game, Shitty making Eric snicker with his frankly pornographic running commentary. The game was well in hand by the third period, with the Falconers up 4-2, and Eric had his phone out, snapping his friends and tweeting to show how close to the ice they were. 

Maybe it was because he was dividing his attention between the game and his phone, but he didn't notice the security officer until she was tapping him on the shoulder and handing him an envelope.

“These are passes for the player areas. Put them on and come to the security desk behind section 125 after the game. Someone wants to see you.”

Eric looked up to see Lardo and Shitty staring at him.

“Dude, you didn't tell me we were meeting the team,” Lardo said.

“I didn't know,” Eric said.

**************************************

Jack felt good going into the game. He'd slept well in the afternoon, and the bread Eric gave him and the jam he'd left outside the door raised his pre-game PB&J to a whole new level.

Then Mashkov saw him smile at Eric during warmups. Jack hadn't even realized he was smiling until he was back in the tunnel and Tater pushed his way through the other players to say, “He come, then?” 

It wasn't like he was quiet. By the time they got back to the locker room, Marty and Thirdy were telling everyone that Jack's baker was there, and did you get a slice of that pie this morning? And Snowy was complaining that no one told him there was pie, and Guy was wondering if it could compare to a pie he'd had once in Montreal, and Jack was torn between arguing that Eric wasn't his anything except his neighbor, and trying to curl up in his locker stall to avoid the chirping.

It died down when the coaches came in to go over the game plan one last time, and when Jack took the ice the distractions fell away like they always did.

Except it wasn't just the same. Somewhere, hidden under the focus on the game that wrapped his mind up like a security blanket, was the awareness that Eric was there, that Eric came to watch him, because he asked. 

It wasn't the pressure that came when his father watched, always making him wonder if he was living up to expectations, or the anxiety that gripped him when he started playing in Europe after his time in rehab. It was comfortable, comforting that Eric wanted to be there.

Jack had an assist on Poots’ goal in the first, and returned to the locker room smiling again. Again, Mashkov accosted him. “Zimmboni smiling again! Is your baker going to come down after the game? Can we meet him?”

“Can I ask him to marry me?” Marty chirped. 

“You're already married,” Jack protested. 

“But that was some seriously good pie,” Marty said.

Jack just shook his head. “I didn't invite him,” Jack said. “Besides, he’ll probably want to get home. He gets up way early for his job.”

“Don't worry,” Tater said. “I fix it.”

The rest of the game went well, with Jack adding an assist in the second and a goal in the third and finishing the night at plus-3. With his three points, he was named second star of the game, behind Poots, who had two goals, and he skated a circle saluting the crowd. When he was headed back to the bench, he glimpsed Eric's blond head moving out of the seats in a hurry, followed by the small woman and large man -- with a truly impressive mustache -- that had to be Lardo and Shitty. Jack briefly wondered why they were rushing, then made it to the locker room, where he flopped on the bench in front of the stall. He could stop by the bakery tomorrow and ask before he left on the roadie.

Jack stripped off his jersey and pads, then his UnderArmor, and headed for the showers. He had just returned with a towel around his waist when there was a knock on the door and the security officer opened it.

“Guests coming in,” he said.

In walked Eric with his friends. Tater, still in his sweaty shirt, stepped in front and said, “Which of you is Jack’s baker?”

Eric gave a half-wave and said, “I'm Eric Bittle.”

“I’m Alexei Mashkov,” Tater said, getting a weak “I know” from Eric, “but you call me Tater, like small potato. Everyone, this Eric, Jack's baker. He make pie we had this morning.”

“Tater, he's just my neighbor,” Jack interjected. “Anyone can buy his pie at his bakery.”

Jack caught a surprised glance from Eric, whose cheeks pinked as he stood straight and set his shoulders. Before Eric could say anything, though, Guy was asking him the name of the bakery and where it was, and the moment passed.

Eric introduced Lardo and Shitty, congratulated the team on the win, then took his leave. 

“Thanks for the tickets, Jack,” he said. “We had a real good time. See you around.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pining. Lots of pining.

When Eric crawled into the back seat of Shitty’s car for the ride home, he wished he could just curl up and pretend to be asleep so no one would talk to him. What had he told them before the game? Jack was his neighbor. Jack was being neighborly. Now they had the proof; they heard it from Jack’s own mouth. But, oh, Eric had been hoping for more.

Stupid. How could he have been so stupid? Rule No. 1 was “Never fall in love with a straight boy,” and he’d not only fallen, he’d taken a running start and a flying leap off the cliff. He’d teased and flirted and offered and accepted gifts. But, to be fair, he thought, Jack had done the same. Jack had offered him the chance to skate at the Falconers’ practice rink, had asked him to get dinner with him, had given him tickets to the game.

Maybe Jack did like him, but didn’t want to be seen with him? Maybe Jack didn’t want his team to know he was spending time with someone like Eric. But then why invite him to meet the team?

The only thing that Eric could come up with was that maybe Jack hadn’t invited them down. Maybe people were already giving him a hard time about Eric, and someone else had done it to make Jack uncomfortable. But that didn’t seem right either, because no one was teasing Jack when Eric was there. They all seemed pleased to meet him, and he was hoping to get some bakery orders out of it.

“Bitty!” Shitty was trying to get his attention from the front seat. “Bits! We’re here. It was a good game, brah. Thanks for the invite.”

He pointedly did not say anything about Jack.

Lardo hopped out to give him a hug and said, “Last tournament game’s at 3 tomorrow, so the ice should be clear by 5:30 if you want to skate.”

“Thanks, Lardo. I’ll be there.”

He watched them drive away together, wondering briefly if Shitty would stay in Providence with Lardo tonight. He wasn’t precisely jealous, but just the thought made him feel lonely.

He hit the button for the elevator and rode upstairs alone, trying to talk himself out of feeling disappointed. Jack had never said he was interested in being any more than friends with Eric (but friends was more than neighbors, wasn’t it?). He had no claim on Jack’s attention and affection, and shouldn’t be surprised when it wasn’t offered (but it had been offered, over and over). He’d kept his distance for so long because he knew nothing good would come of letting his imagination go (but he hadn’t been imagining the smiles, or the blushes he’d seen on Jack’s face).

Well, whatever had happened over the past few days, it wasn’t happening any more. If Jack wanted to go back to being neighbors, he thought as he let himself into his tiny studio, he could do that. But really, he didn’t want to.

**************************

Jack entered Sugar ‘n’ Spice at five minutes after 10 in the morning, aiming for what he suspected would be a lull between the breakfast and lunch crowds. He was right; there was just a woman flipping through an album of birthday cake designs at the counter, and a good-looking student in a beanie studying at one of the tables. Chris -- whom Eric called Chowder -- was setting the coffee maker to brew.

Jack arranged his face in a friendly expression and approached the cash register, ready to tell Chris that he’d be happy to wait for the coffee.

He expected to Chris to look excited -- it was clear Chris knew who he was the first time he walked in, but he’d never actually said as much to Jack -- and offer a friendly greeting. Instead, Chris gave him a look that might have been an attempt at a scowl and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Maybe the coffee-brewing was going badly.

“That’s fine,” Jack said. “I actually wanted to talk to Eric … uh, Bitty. Is he around?”

“He’s in back, but he’s pretty busy,” Chris said. “I’ll go ask if he can talk to you.”

Chris disappeared for a minute or two and then came back, saying Eric couldn’t talk just now because he was trying to finish something for a noon pickup. 

“You can leave a message with me,” Chris said flatly.

“That’s OK,” Jack said. “I can wait a bit. But I’ll take a cup of that coffee when it’s ready.”

“Suit yourself,” Chris said. He poked his head back into the kitchen, said something that sounded like, “He’s waiting,” and, took the woman’s birthday cake order, then poured Jack’s coffee. In a to-go cup. If Jack didn’t know better, he’d think Chris wanted him to leave.

“Can you see if Eric can talk to me now?” Jack asked when he handed his money over. 

“He knows you’re here,” Chris said, but carried a bin of dirty cups into the back while Jack waited.

He was alone in the front of the shop with the student, who had started staring at Jack instead of his laptop.

Jack didn’t want to be rude here, but he didn’t want to engage the young man, who looked to be about Chris’s age, so he nodded and looked away.

“You’re Jack Zimmermann,” the student said.

“Yes,” Jack said. “And you are?”

“Derek Nurse,” the student said. “Waiting for Bitty?”

“Uh, yes,” Jack said.

“‘S chill. I’m waiting for Chowder to finish.”

“OK,” Jack said. 

Finally Eric emerged from the kitchen, carrying a large white box tied with string. “Any sign of Dex yet, Nursey? I know Chowder wants to get out of here. If Dex is running late, he can go ahead. I can handle things ‘til he gets in.”

“No worries, Bitty. I have enough to do. I’d hate to leave you alone. You never know who might wander in.” Nurse’s eyes cut to Jack. “Besides, you know Dex. He’s always on time.”

“That’s true,” Eric said. “Well, make yourself at home. Do you need a refill on that coffee, hon?” 

“No, thanks, Bits,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Bitty -- Eric -- finally turned to Jack, without his usual smile. “Mr. Zimmermann,” he said. “Something I can do for you?”

“I just came by to see if you wanted to skate on the practice ice this afternoon,” Jack said. “The team’s leaving in a couple of hours -- we won’t be back until next week -- but Rick said to give you his number. Just give him a call if you want to skate, and he can get you in.”

Jack slid a slip of paper with Rick’s phone number across the counter.

Eric’s face softened for a moment, and he said, “That’s really nice of him, but the tournament at Meehan ends this afternoon, so I should be good. I’ll call him and let him know. But you didn’t have to come all the way here to tell me -- you could have just texted. Do you want a muffin or something since you’re here?”

Jack wanted to say, “I came because I wanted to see you,” but that sounded cheesy even in his head. He wondered if something had happened to upset Eric; he seemed more distant than he usually did, even when they were just making elevator small talk.

What he did say was, “No, thanks. Not a cheat day. But the guys really liked your pie. Maybe I can bring more in another time?”

*********************************

Eric knew he only had an hour on the ice. Lardo was doing the best she could for him, getting him time just after the ice was cleaned, then leaving it with his marks for the Brown students’ open skate, when it didn’t really matter.

He knew he shouldn’t be wasting that time, but when Lardo asked about Jack, he paused in lacing up his skates and said, “You know I’m cursing myself for being seven kinds of fool. I haven’t even seen him since the day after we went to the game. I knew better -- I _know_ better than to think someone like him would want anything to do with me.”

“Bro, that’s like three weeks. Don’t you live on the same floor? Surely you could arrange to bump into him.”

“Well, sure, I could, but I’m trying not to,” Eric said. “I don’t want him looking at me like some poor lovesick kid that embarrassed him by having a crush. Anyway, he was gone for a week on that west coast trip, and then I was in Madison for Christmas, and since then, I’ve just sort of … avoided him?”

“How? I thought he used to show up when you’d be leaving and ride the elevator with you,” Lardo said.

“I’ve sort of been taking the stairs down. The door to the stairwell is right next to my apartment so I don’t have to walk by his door.”

“Bits. Bro.”

“But it won’t be an issue much longer because my lease -- well, Adrienne’s lease -- is up at the end of the month, and I can’t afford to pay the whole rent, so now I’ve got to find another place.”

“You could always see if Jack wants a roommate,” Lardo said, batting her eyes.

“Just, don’t,” Eric said. “He doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Lardo watched Eric finish lacing his skates before saying, “I don’t buy it.”

“What do you mean?” Eric asked.

“He was totally into you,” she said. “He invited you to skate on his team’s rink, he invited himself to skate with you -- which, in his language, is probably the same as proposing marriage. He invited you to hang out, and he gave you tickets to watch him play hockey,” Lardo said. “And he smiled at you. I didn’t know he _could_ smile from the games I’ve seen on TV. Then he invited you to the locker room after.”

“And then he told everyone that I’m just his neighbor, and if they liked my pie, they can buy some,” Eric said. “Which was nice of him, and good for the bakery, but also felt like a giant “No Trespassing” sign in terms of having any kind of closer relationship.”

“But he did show up at the bakery the next day,” Lardo pointed out.

“To tell me I could skate at the rink when he wasn’t there,” Eric said. “I guess Rick liked my pie, too. I sent him another one, and he texted me back to let me know I can skate there whenever, as long as he’s around and the team doesn’t need it.”

“So what are you doing here? I thought they had a beautiful ice surface,” Lardo asked.

“They do, but that doesn’t mean it’s better than yours,” Eric said. “Besides, I’d miss you. Here, can you play this?”

He handed her his phone with a playlist up. If it sounded like he was trying to drown his sorrows in sad music, so be it. Lardo would understand.

“Want to get a drink after?” Lardo asked him before heading to the booth.

“I would, but I have to go back to work. Mashkov ordered three pies for tomorrow.”

“Mashkov, huh? He’s pretty cute too,” Lardo said, considering.

“Oh my gosh, Lardo, stop,” Bitty said, but he giggled. Lardo smiled as she headed up the stairs.

***********************

Jack opened his door a crack at 4:30 so he could hear if Eric walked by. If he stood there in his running clothes, keys in his pocket and ready to walk out the moment he heard Eric’s step, well, Eric wouldn’t know that.

He waited until five, when he knew Eric would have gone if he was going. Then he let himself out, closed the door and walked to the elevator. There was a short wait after he pushed the button, then the doors opened and he walked in and turned around to face the front. Just before the doors slid closed, he thought he heard the click of the heavy stairwell door closing at the other end of the hall.

Was that how Eric was avoiding him, or did he imagine it? If it was, it answered the question of how Eric never seemed to be leaving the same time anymore: Eric was leaving, he was just going a different way. But it left the question of why Eric was avoiding him.

He didn’t think he’d been imagining it before. Eric seemed to like him. Even before the night when he’d followed Eric, Eric had always been pleasant in the elevator, always had a smile for Jack no matter how tired he looked.

Jack, well, maybe he thought too much of himself, but he’d kind of thought Eric might be interested in him, but didn’t want to intrude. It was one of the reasons he’d been so curious about Eric. That, and he was so warm and sunny, and his accent made Jack think of honey for some reason, and was it wrong to think of someone you barely knew as beautiful?

Maybe Jack didn’t think he was beautiful until he saw him skate; it was hard to remember, exactly. But Jack knew he always thought the small blond man he shared an elevator with was attractive.

And when they’d sat in Jack’s living room, giving the Blue Jackets and Hurricanes minimal attention, Eric had answered all his questions without once acting like his intensity was too much.

He’d said something at the end, about how going to college after his career was over wouldn’t be too stressful, that made Jack think for a moment that he knew. That he’d Googled Jack and somehow took what he’d found and figured out that Jack still suffered from anxiety.

Of course he’d Googled Jack. That’s what people did. Maybe what he found there made him want to pull away. Maybe he was one of those people who thought once an addict, always an addict. But addiction wasn’t Jack’s problem, or at least not his primary problem.

The rumors about Jack and Parse wouldn’t have put him off, would they? Eric had talked about coming out to his friend Shitty, so he didn’t mind Jack knowing he was gay. Jack had actually taken that as encouragement.

Then Eric had shown up in the locker room, no doubt at Tater’s invitation, and given the way the team had been chirping him, Jack was afraid they’d start on Eric. He didn’t want his whole team to pile on Eric, teasing him about capturing Jack’s interest, when Jack hadn’t even made that interest clear. He hadn’t so much as held his hand or hugged him, let alone kissed him, even though he’d imagined it over and over again.

He’d imagined walking Eric to his door, bending down and just brushing his lips across Eric’s, the lightest of kisses, to see how he would respond. He’d imagined caging Eric in against the elevator wall and kissing him hard and fast, pulling back to see Eric’s mouth red and swollen and Eric looking at him like he wanted more. He’d imagined sitting on his couch with Eric, food and drinks on the table, a game or a movie on the TV, and pulling him in for a long, slow, deep kiss that promised more.

In every version, Eric tasted sweet. Jack craved that sweetness in his life.

*******************

Tater arrived in Sugar ‘n’ Spice directly after the morning skate. Eric knew that because it was the same time Jack had come in the day he invited Eric to come to the game.

He had the pies boxed and waiting: another apple, a pumpkin pie and a pecan pie. On the top was a slab of Eric’s gingerbread, a dense and spicy concoction served warm.

“Mr. Mashkov,” Eric said. “Good to see you again. The pies you ordered are right here. I hope you’re not planning to eat them all today -- I know y’all’ve got a game tonight.”

“No, no, I want one slice,” Mashkov said. “The rest for Falconers’ staff, and the team can have leftovers tomorrow, if there is any left. And I told you before, call me Tater.”

“Well, I’m not sure I would bet on leftovers,” Eric said. “Which one are you gonna have?”

“Well, I had apple before, and people tell me pumpkin pie is very American, so I want to try that, but someone tell me that pecan pie is from South, where you from, so I want that too.”

“Tell you what, have a slice of pumpkin today, and save a slice of the pecan for tomorrow,” Eric said. “It’ll keep better. And one day, I’ll make you a sweet potato pie, if you want.”

“Pie with potatoes?” Tater asked.

“Sweet potatoes,” Eric said. “To go with your name. But for now, try this. I read that gingerbread is popular in Russia. This is our version.”

Tater inhaled the slab in a couple of bites. “This sweeter,” he said. “And ours has jam or cream in middle. But I like this.”

“Maybe next time I’ll use some jam,” Eric said.

“You coming to game tonight?” Tater asked.

“Aw, no, I can’t.” Eric said. “I can’t really afford the tickets, especially so close to the ice. I was only there because Jack gave me tickets.”

“And he not give you ticket for tonight?” Mashkov looked surprised. “He's happier when you there.”

“No,” Eric said. “It was nice enough of him to give me tickets to just the one game. I’ll watch on TV.”

“You tell Zimmboni you watch on TV?” Tater asked. “Maybe that makes him happy too.”

“Uh, I really haven’t talked to Jack for a while,” Eric said. “We haven’t seen each other.”

“No wonder he’s being … what’s the word … grumpier than usual,” Tater said. “Let me give you his number. You call him.”

“I have his number,” Eric said. “We just haven’t had any reason to talk. We’re just neighbors, Tater, and that only for the next few weeks.”

Tater looked at Eric and shook his head sadly before taking his pies and leaving.

Eric clattered the cups a bit more loudly than usual as he cleared up the counter, enough to make Nursey raise his head from his laptop in the corner.

“You all right, Bitty?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I just wish people would stop asking me about Jack Zimmermann.”

“That’s cool. But if Mashkov comes in again, can I ask for his autograph?”

“No, Nursey. We don’t do that here. We let people be.”

**************************

Jack had come home from his run the night before and decided that if Eric had Googled him -- and he was almost sure he had -- he could Google Eric.

He found plenty of material, both YouTube clips of a much younger Eric skating and something called a vlog, which seemed to start around the time Eric left competitive skating. It was a cross between a video diary and TV show, with Eric talking directly to his viewers sometimes and demonstrating baking techniques other times. 

He spent the time between morning skate and his nap watching the vlog, seeing Eric grow up before his eyes. He went from a small, shaggy-haired teenager to the confident young man Jack had (admit it, he told himself) fallen for. Along the way, Jack heard about his decision to go to college a thousand miles away, watched him say, maybe for the first time out loud, that he was gay, learned more about the Samwell hockey team and Eric’s difficulties with checking.

If he’d been hoping to find something that would make it easier to write Eric off, something to make him see Eric as “just a neighbor,” like he told his team, he didn’t find it. His feelings for Eric only intensified, and now he felt protective of him, too. Which was odd, because while it seemed that Eric had some rough times in his past (he never said as much, but it was clear as Jack followed the vlog and watched Eric blossom when he reached an environment where he could be himself), he was doing fine now. Or at least he seemed to be. Were there still things Eric wasn’t sharing?

There was only one vlog posted since Eric and Jack had their two-day friendship fling, and Eric hadn’t said a word about Jack. It was a baking post, showing a variety of Christmas cookies, recorded at his parents’ house with his mom (“mama,” he called her) as guest star. If Eric’s good cheer seemed a little forced, was it because he was back in Georgia? Or because he was one of those people who find the insistent cheeriness of the winter holidays draining? Or something else?

Jack curled up in bed wishing he knew Eric well enough that the answer was obvious. He wished that he’d texted Eric while he was on the roadie, like he'd wanted to so many times. He’d stopped himself because it seemed like Eric hadn’t wanted to talk to him before he left, and he didn’t know why, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask that day at the bakery. Maybe if they’d been alone.

But he hadn’t, and then he felt funny about texting, so he decided to wait for Eric to text him, which he didn’t, and now he had been home for two weeks and hadn’t so much as seen the flash of Eric’s blond hair as he went into his apartment.

Tomorrow, Jack thought, I’ll do something about it tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric's avoiding Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I could wrap this up in this chapter, but it was growing out of control. So have Chapter 5, and know that Chapter 6 is coming.

Eric dragged himself out of bed at 4, as he usually did on work days, showered to wake up, and pulled on jeans, a T-shirt and flannel and plugged his earbuds in. He let himself out of his apartment and cast a glance at Jack’s door as he walked softly past on the way to the elevator.

Jack was almost certainly in there, sound asleep. He’d played at home last night, in a physical game against the Flyers that saw Jack hit hard enough to miss a shift or two. 

Eric had worried briefly until he saw that Jack had taken the ice again, his face a mask of grim determination. It was so different from the soft smiles that Eric had seen. Jack had taken the puck and scored before the end of the period, as if he had something to prove. Maybe he thought he did, Eric thought. But after eight years, a trophy case full of hardware and the evident respect of his team, Eric thought maybe it would be OK if Jack relaxed a little. He thought maybe Jack had relaxed when they were together. He thought it was time to stop thinking about Jack.

This morning, as soon as he had the first loaves of bread and batches of muffins and scones in the ovens, he started the coffee and pulled out his phone to look at apartment listings. Ideally, he’d find a place at least as close to the bakery as he lived now. He didn’t think he could go much smaller than Adrienne’s studio, or pay much more than the two-thirds of her rent that he was paying now, either. But it didn’t have to be in a fancy elevator building. A second- or third-floor walkup in an older building would be fine, as long as it had a functioning kitchen.

A bigger kitchen than the one he had now would be nice as well, he thought.

He didn’t see many options that met all of his requirements. Well, he didn’t really see any, but he copied a few listings that came close. Some were just a little too expensive -- maybe he could talk them down, or bribe them with baked goods? Some were just a little too far, so he’d have to get up even earlier. And of course, he wouldn’t know about the kitchens until he could see for himself.

He closed his phone and was pulling muffins and scones out of the oven when Chowder came in.

“Morning, Bitty,” Chowder said. “Did you see the game last night?”

***************************

When Jack woke up, all he could think was that he hurt.

He felt like he’d been hit by a truck, and he knew lying in bed wouldn’t help. He stretched once, feeling his muscles release some of their tension, then confirmed in his own mind that there was nothing seriously wrong. Just the aches and pains that came with having played a tough game the night before, being pushed into the boards over and over, with bruises from his shoulder and ribs to his knees to show for it.

It was already 7:30. Eric would have been at work for hours already. How did he get up so early every day? Jack knew from their conversation over dinner that Eric wasn’t a natural early riser, and that he routinely slept in until after 9 on the two days he took off each week. 

It had been such a good conversation, Jack thought. Eric had been so open, about most things at least, and Jack felt like he was really getting to know him, and the more he learned, the more captivated he was. Eric might look soft at first glance, but how much discipline did it take to get up hours before his body told him to, five days a week, to accomplish his goal of making the bakery he managed a success? To not only get up and bake, but to greet customers all day long with cheerfulness and hospitality, no matter how tired he was? Eric seemed to need to make people feel welcomed and comfortable the way Jack needed to win hockey games. Had Jack taken advantage of that? He hoped not. 

He thought about what Tater told him before the game, after waltzing into the rink and wafting a slice of Eric’s apple pie under Jack’s nose.

“Guess where I got this, Zimmboni! I saw the little baker today,” Tater had crowed. “He even give me gingerbread to try. But no pie for you. If you want Eric’s pie, you go talk to him yourself.”

Jack responded by grunting at Tater, “It’s not a cheat day. For you either.”

“No, I’m serious,” Tater said. “You happier when he’s around, but he tell me that you haven’t talked to him. So go talk to him.”

“Why?” Jack said. “It’s not like we’re close. He’s just my neighbor.”

“Not too much longer,” Tater said. “He moves in a couple of weeks.”

“What? Why?”

“He not tell me that,” Tater said. “Only that he’s looking for a new place.”

**************************

“Chowder, hon, can you stay a little late today to help Dex with lunch? You can get Derek to work the register if he’s around,” Bitty asked, taking off his apron and looking over the full racks that were the result of a morning of baking.

“I don’t think we’ll run out of anything,” he continued. “But I really need to go and look at some of these apartments.”

“Sure, Bitty, we can handle it,” Chowder said. “You’re moving? Is it because of what happened with Jack?”

“I’m going to keep saying this until you believe it, Chowder,” Eric said. “Nothing happened with Jack. He did me a favor because I’m his neighbor, and he’d seen me around, and we talked a bit, and that was the end of it.”

“Whatever you say,” Chowder said. “Never mind the following you, skating with you, inviting you to eat with him or some very expensive hockey tickets.”

“But then the Falconers were out of town and then I was out of town and it just sort of petered out,” Eric said. “That happens. And I’m moving because Adrienne’s lease is up and I can’t afford the lease on my own.”

“So he ghosted you?” Chowder persisted.

“No more than I ghosted him, I guess,” Eric said. “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“About the apartment -- have you thought about getting a roommate? Then you could afford something better.”

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “I kind of like having my own space. Although I might have to crash with Lardo for a bit if I don’t find something in time.”

“You could move in with us for a while,” Chowder said.

“With you and Dex and Nurse? Nah, I think you guys are crowded enough.”

******************************

Yesterday, Jack had decided to talk to Eric today. He supposed he could have done it yesterday, but it was a game day, and Jack had his routine to maintain. 

Jack thought about stopping at the bakery before morning skate. Coach said the skate was optional, anyway. But no skating session was truly optional to Jack.

After the skate then? But if he went to the bakery, he didn’t know who would be there, running interference for Eric. It could be Chris Chow, or that student Nurse, or Dex, and he’d bet any of them would insist that Eric was in the back baking and couldn’t be bothered. 

After the morning skate, Jack got pulled into a meeting with George and the PR people, then invited to lunch with Guy and Marty.

And _crisse,_ what was lunch about? The two veterans -- the only two who had been on the team longer than Jack -- all but broke into “If You Were Gay” from Avenue Q, they were working so hard to get the message across that they would be absolutely fine if there was a gay player on the team.

“I get it, guys,” Jack had finally said. “You think I’m gay, and you want me to know that’s OK. But you have to know it’s not so simple. If I came out -- or was forced out -- I’d be the only one in the league. So I’ll just continue to keep my private life private, thank you.”

Guy actually laughed and said, “So that practically serves as confirmation that you’re --”

“Not gay, necessarily,” Jack said. “I have had relationships with women”

“At least, not straight,” Marty said. “And none of those women made you smile like that little baker guy a few weeks ago. I can’t help noticing that you’ve been ---”

“Not quite a little ray of sunshine,” Guy chimed in,

“-- since he disappeared,” Marty said. “Nobody wants to force you to come out, but we do want you to be happy. For the sake of the team, and more importantly for your own sake. The team will have your back whatever you want to do.”

“That would be fine if it was all up to me,” Jack finally said. “But he kind of has something to say about it too, eh?’

“So what did he say?” Marty asked.

“He told Tater that we were just neighbors,” Jack said.

“He told _Tater_?” Guy asked. “What did he tell you? Wait, wait, don’t tell me. You haven’t talked to him?”

“Not since we left for that road trip before Christmas,” Jack said.

“Why not?” Marty asked. “He _is_ your neighbor. You know where he lives. And where he works, right? Can’t you just go and borrow a cup of sugar or something?”

The leer on his face would have been funny if the whole topic wasn’t putting Jack off his lunch.

“Wait,” Guy said. “He told Tater that you were just neighbors? Isn’t that what you said that night in the locker room?”

“Can we stop talking about this now?” Jack asked. “You guys gossip like old women.”

“We’re not gossiping,” Marty protested. “We’re trying to help you. 

*********************************************

Eric groaned and sat down at a small coffee shop, frowning at the tacky feel of the table. Did they ever clean properly? He’d ask for his coffee in a to-go cup.

Eric had spent hours going from apartment to apartment, but none of them felt like home. None of them even felt like they had the potential to become home. The first one was close to Sugar ‘n’ Spice, only about two blocks away. It was also the size of his parents’ walk-in closet in Madison. Really, his dorm room at Samwell had been bigger. The kitchen consisted of a mini-fridge, a tiny, two-burner stove and an undersized sink ranged along the wall across from the windows. There was no way; it was impossible.

The second place was better. Still technically a studio, there was a half-wall between the kitchen and the sleeping and living area, and the appliances were standard-sized. But the rent was the same as he was paying now for less space in an older building, up three floors with no elevator. Then Eric looked in the cabinet under the sink and spied the mildew. He crossed it off his list.

The bathroom in the third place had a smell that Eric really didn’t want to investigate, and the fourth wasn’t even really an apartment, even though it had been advertised as one. Rather, it was a spare room in a house, not a very nice one at that. The woman who owned the house said he’d have kitchen privileges, as long as he confined his food to one shelf of the fridge. Nope.

The fifth place he looked at was the nicest, but it was two miles from the bakery, which was a long walk for cold, dark winter mornings. It had an actual kitchen, and the bathroom was adequate, even if Eric wanted a bathtub as well as a shower, but it was horribly dark on this January afternoon. The only windows faced north, and the next building was a few feet away, and Eric could just feel any good spirits he had left curl up and die in his lower abdomen.

He’d thanked the landlord for showing him the place, hoisted his bag back on his shoulder, and sought sustenance in the form of hot caffeine and sugar. That may have actually been all there was to the coffee they brought him, but it was enough that he could get up and make his way to the bus stop to head directly to Meehan today. He’d have to tell Lardo to plan on him invading her studio apartment for at least a couple of weeks.

**************************************************

Jack left lunch resolved to find Eric and talk to him, to at least reopen communication and tell him he shouldn’t feel like he had to avoid Jack. If he could find out whether Eric was actually moving, and why, so much the better. He had to make sure Eric knew that Jack would follow his lead; if Eric didn’t want Jack bothering him, he wouldn’t, but Eric shouldn’t have to leave his home.

Finding Eric proved more difficult than Jack expected. He went to Sugar ‘n’ Spice first, knowing Eric usually worked until 2:30, hoping he could catch him. But Chris Chow told him Eric wasn’t there, that he and Dex had been left in charge, and Nursey was helping out.

“Do you know where he is?” Jack asked.

“I don’t think we should tell you that,” Dex said. “Bitty’s got your number, right? So if he wanted you to know, he could text you. Or if you have his number, you could text him, instead of asking us, right?”

Dex didn’t have Chowder’s cheerful enthusiasm, or even Nurse’s attitude of conscious relaxation. He was somehow aggressive and polite at the same time. 

“I could,” Jack said. “But he’s usually here now. Never mind. I’ll just catch up to him at home.”

“Don’t think you’ll have much luck,” Nurse chimed in. “He was going out to look for a new apartment.”

“He’s still got to come home eventually,” Jack said. “That’s where his hockey stuff is.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before Chris Chow finally spoke to him.

“Do you like Bitty?” he asked. “Because I think he likes you, and he’s been really sad since you stopped hanging out with him. And I thought you liked him before.”

Jack considered fudging his answer before saying, “Yeah, Chow. I like Eric. And I’ve been sad since we haven’t been hanging out. I’d like to change that.”

“Cool,” Chowder said. “Want a coffee to go?”

Jack walked back home and knocked on Eric’s door, but there was no answer and no sound of anyone moving around inside. He gave up and went home, leaving his apartment door open. If Bitty took the elevator up, he’d walk right by it. Even if he took the stairs, Jack thought he’d hear him. He waited until it was past time for Eric to leave for the rink.

Then he grabbed his keys, closed his door, and took the elevator down to the garage.

*****************************

Eric handed his phone to Lardo after he finished lacing his skates.

He’d already told her about the truly awful apartments he’d looked at that afternoon, winning her commiseration.

“Of course you’re welcome to my couch, Bits,” she said. “But you know my place is kind of out-of-the-way for you. There’s no way you can stay in your building?”

“I just can’t afford the rent,” he said. “I could ask Matthew for a raise -- the bakery’s doing better, so he’d probably agree, I think, but I don’t know if it would be enough. And since it would be a new lease, I’d need first and last month’s rent and a security deposit, and there’s no way I could come up with that much in three weeks. I’ll be pushing it even with a cheaper place. And I’m hoping that with a smaller building, one where maybe the owner lives there, I can talk them down from that if I give them pie. Where I live now, there’s a management company and they won’t bend the rules.”

“Cool,” Lardo said. “I know you. You won’t give up, and you’ll find something. I can probably take off some time tomorrow afternoon to look with you, if you want. But you should definitely ask for a raise anyway. It’s been six months, and it sounds like you deserve it.”

“I do,” Eric said. “I know I do. But I’m not sure how to say it.”

“Dude, I wish I could help, like be your agent or something,” Lardo said. “Wouldn’t that be cool? If regular people could have agents to help with things like this?”

Eric laughed and said, “Sure would.”

So maybe his choice of music on the playlist he'd made for today was melodramatic, all sad music, starting with Tchaikovsky’s “Pathetique,” and Barber’s “Adagio for Strings.” The music was slow, and after warming up, Eric used it to practice his precision footwork and spins. When “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again,” came on, he moved into an improvised routine with jumps and spins. Sure, it was Andrew Lloyd Webber, which was kind of the definition of melodramatic, but Eric was in no way over missing Jack and he wanted to sink into the melodrama, at least for a little while.

The thing was, he had no right to miss Jack like that, Eric thought. They’d had a brief flirtation with a friendship that turned out to go nowhere, a relationship based on proximity -- on them being neighbors -- when Eric didn’t even belong in the building where he lived. Of course Jack had no time for him, had no reason to text him while he was away or to ask him to come hang out. And even if he did, well, that wouldn’t make Eric happy. He knew that now. He knew that before, too. That’s why he had spent so much time keeping his distance, admiring Jack from across the elevator but never making a move to close the gap. Getting closer to what he couldn’t have would only make it hurt more. He knew that.

But he had gotten closer, and learned that Jack wasn’t just gorgeous and talented and considerate enough to hold the elevator. He was awkward and sweet and maybe a little lost when it came to dealing with people who weren’t trying to steal the puck from him. He was generous and fun and a good listener, and when his face lit up … Eric wanted to kiss him when he smiled. And he thought if he kissed Jack he wouldn’t want to stop there.

And this wasn’t making it easier.

Eric tried to shut off his thoughts and concentrate on his skating, landing a double axel perfectly and moving directly into a double toe loop, pushing into a spin and coming to a stop as the music ended.

He heard slow applause coming from the boards, not the booth where Lardo would be with his phone. Eric turned, half hopeful and half afraid.

********************

Jack pulled into the lot at Meehan and was not surprised to find the doors unlocked, even though the ice was supposed to be closed. Rink doors tended to be open when anyone was around.

He let himself in, past the ticket booth, through the lobby, through the doors to the ice. He stopped at the top of the stands.

Eric was there, a lone figure in black moving against the stark white. Music surrounded him, coming from the rink’s speakers, something with lots of strings, slow and sad. Eric was working through what looked like practice exercises, the same kind of thing he had done at the Falconers’ rink. There, Jack had watched through the window from the gym, only sometimes catching a bit of the music from the portable speaker Eric brought.

Here, the music engulfed him, and the lights in the stands were low, making the bright ice and the lithe form moving on it the only focal point in the cavernous space, like Eric was entirely alone in the world, separated from anyone watching, untouchable.

Jack wanted to touch. But he couldn’t. Not from here, not without skates, not if Eric didn’t want him to. _Tabarnak d’osti,_ what was he doing? He’d done it again, followed Eric without his invitation or permission, like a creepy stalker. He should go.

The music changed, and Eric launched into a routine that included skating and spins and jumps, more ragged than the one he had done when he knew Jack was watching, not as practiced, but still enthralling. As Jack watched, he moved down the steps just a bit, keeping in the shadows but trying to get closer.

He shouldn’t do this, he thought, but when he turned to go, there was someone on the stairs behind him. Lardo, he was sure. The girl who’d been at the game with Eric, who worked here and let Eric skate.

“Jack Zimmermann.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Why are you here?”

That was, Jack recognized. It was a real question, and how he answered could make a difference in whether he was allowed to stay.

“I wanted to see Eric,” Jack said. “I want to talk to him, but I think he’s avoiding me, and he wasn’t at the bakery when I went, and then he didn’t come home, so I came here. If I shouldn’t have, I’ll go.”

Jack made to move past Lardo back up the stairs, but for someone so small, she managed to take up a lot of space.

“What did you want to tell him?” she asked.

That he’s beautiful and amazing, Jack thought. That I want to go back to being friends, to see if we could be more, because I want to be more. That I want to touch him, but I’m afraid he might break. I’m afraid I might break. That he shouldn’t have to take the stairs to avoid me. That it hurt to find out from Tater that he’s moving away from me.

“I miss him,” Jack said. “And I’m pretty sure I hurt him, but I never meant to, and I want to say I’m sorry.”

Lardo nodded once, like that settled something, and said, “You were really kind of a dick in the locker room.”

“I know,” Jack said. “I mean, I know now. I was just scared. The guys, they knew I invited him to the game, and they were acting like we were together, and I wanted to be, but we weren’t, and I didn’t want Eric to think I was acting like we were and overstepping, but I can see where maybe he thought that meant I didn’t want to.”

Lardo somehow followed his mess of an explanation and said, “He thought you didn’t want to be seen with him, not even hanging out. He thought you were embarrassed by him.”

Jack felt his jaw drop. “Why?” he said.

“Because he’s a bakery manager who can barely pay his rent, and you’re a millionaire?” she said. “Because he’s out, and doesn’t hide that he’s gay, and you’re a professional athlete with an image to protect?” 

“Not that good of an image,” Jack said. “And maybe I'm not ready to be out to the world, but I haven't really thought about that. For what it's worth, my teammates all pretty much said I should do this.”

Lardo nodded again and said, “I have to grab his phone,” and left Jack standing on the stairs.

*************************

Yep, it was Jack, standing by the door to the ice, next to Eric’s bag and skate guards, applauding until he saw Eric turn. 

Then he looked … worried? Scared? Eric wasn't sure. He considered skating the other way, leaving the rink by the other door, but that would be too rude. He wasn't _angry_ at Jack precisely, he just kind of resented him for being _right there,_ making it difficult for Eric to ignore him when he clearly couldn't give Eric what he wanted. Which sounded terribly selfish when Eric let the thought form itself into words. And Eric would have fought anyone else who put that expression of self-doubt onto Jack’s face. 

Besides, Jack was standing next to Eric’s skate guards.

So Eric skated over and said, “Hey.”

“Hey, Eric. If it's not OK for me to be here, I can go,” Jack said. “But I know you're avoiding me, and I'm not sure why. I thought we were getting to be friends.”

“I’m not avoiding you!” Eric said. “I've just been really busy and --”

“You've been taking the stairs down from your apartment.”

“You've been watching me.”

“Not really. Watching for you, maybe. But can you tell me what the problem is?” Jack said. “Because I really liked being friends with you, and I don't know what changed, and I want to fix it if I can.”

“It didn't seem like you wanted to be friends with me,” Eric said. “When I came to your game. And when you didn’t text me or anything for the next couple of weeks.”

He looked pointedly at the door until Jack moved aside so he could get off the ice and sit down to put his skate guards on. Jack loomed over him for a moment, then knelt so they were closer to eye level.

“I'm sorry if it sounded that way,” Jack said. “I was taken by surprise --”

“But you invited us.”

“Tater did. He didn't tell me,” Jack said.

“No more extra gingerbread for him,” Eric huffed.

“He didn't mean to cause a problem,” Jack said. “He really did want to meet you. But the whole team had been chirping me about you being my boyfriend, and I guess Tater decided you needed to come down. I didn't know until you walked in. But we were just getting to know each other, and I didn't want them to embarrass you by assuming too much, especially in front of your friends, so I was trying to shut them down. I guess it worked too well.”

“But why didn't you ever get back in touch?” Eric said. “You could have texted.”

“You were so distant the next day, and I didn't know why, so I thought I'd give you some space, and you'd text when you were ready,” Jack said. “But you didn't, and then I thought I'd talk to you when we got back, but I never saw you.”

“I was in Georgia for the holidays when you got back,” Eric said. “But when I didn't hear from you at all, I thought you just thought better of it and didn't want to be seen with me. I mean, you know I'm gay.”

“Why would that embarrass me?” Jack honestly looked confused.

“Well, maybe a week in small-town Georgia helped me get there,” Eric acknowledged. “But you're a professional athlete. You don't want that kind of rumor going around about you.”

“The rumor that I have a friend who's gay?”

Now Jack was chirping. Eric could tell. “You know what I meant.”

“If you've Googled me you know that rumor’s been around since I've been in the league.” Jack shrugged. “I’ve been around a while. It hasn’t made much difference, and I guess since it’s not new, I’m not too worried. Everyone on the team seems OK. But I’ve never felt the need to address it because I really haven’t had any serious relationships.”

“Uh, OK,” Eric said. “I did Google you, but I stopped reading when they talked about you going to rehab because it felt too personal. I did read about your Cup wins, and the Conn Smythe and the Art Ross.”

Jack suddenly looked flustered. “It’s all right if you want to. I guess I kind of expect everyone to know? But after everything else, having a gay friend? I really don’t think that’s what’s going to do me in.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally. But it's not easy. And there's pie.  
> Very mildly NSFW in one paragraph near the end.

Bitty had a considering look on his face and he said, “Maybe not, if they’re as open-minded as that.”

“I’ve played in Providence for eight years,” Jack said. “And I have a clause in my contract that says I have to approve any trades, so I won’t end up in somewhere where I think it will be a problem.”

Eric stood and headed down the tunnel towards the locker room where he showered.

“That’s real good,” he said, just before pushing the door open. “But there’s another thing.”

“What?” Jack said. 

“I can't be your friend,” Bitty said, then entered the locker room and let the door swing shut behind him.

Jack had raised his hand to push in after Eric, but stopped himself. That truly would be an invasion of privacy. _Crisse,_ what had Eric meant? Of course he could be Jack’s friend. He had been Jack’s friend, for at least a couple of days there. Unless he had learned something about Jack that he couldn’t tolerate. But he hadn’t even read about all the scandals surrounding him when he was supposed to be in the draft. Since then, Jack had worked to make his personal life entirely too boring for the tabloids to take notice. It didn’t make sense.

Well, Eric wasn’t going to push him away that easily. Jack rested his shoulders against the cinderblock wall of the corridor, tilting his head back and breathing slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth.

He wasn’t sure how long he was there when he heard Lardo’s quiet steps approaching. He opened his eyes and straightened up. Had Eric called her to kick him out?

“How did it go?” she asked.

“I thought it was going well,” Jack said.

“Until?”

“Until he said he couldn’t be my friend and closed the door in my face.”

Lardo looked puzzled, and disappointed.

“Did he say why?”

“No,” Jack said. “He seemed to understand about the night at the game, but he was concerned that hanging around him would be bad for my image. I told him that didn’t matter. I was going to at least wait until he comes out to find out what he meant. I mean, he didn’t say he didn’t want to be friends, just that he couldn’t. Do you understand it?”

Jack stopped, and briefly wondered why he was trusting this woman whom he barely knew. But she was Eric’s friend. He supposed that was it.

Now she looked speculative.

“Maybe,” she said. “I have an idea. But even if I’m right, you’d have to ask him. Listen, if he says to leave him alone, you will, right?”

“Of course,” Jack said. 

“OK,” Lardo said. “I was coming to bring him his phone. I usually just wait here with it. Take it and give it to him when he comes out. Tell him I had to leave to meet Shitty. And try talking to him -- like, really talking, not just explaining where you went wrong. Eric sometimes uses that shiny, bubbly personality to deflect attention from his actual self, if you know what I mean, and he’s very careful about putting too much of himself out there. Been smacked down too many times in his life, I think.”

She handed Jack Eric’s phone, lock screen firmly in place, and walked away.

*****************************

Eric took his time in the shower, working both the shampoo and conditioner thoroughly into his hair and lathering every square inch of skin with body wash.

When he got out, he dried carefully and dressed back in his jeans and button down before finger-combing gel through his hair and drying it. Surely Jack would have left by now. He could retrieve his phone from Lardo and head home. Probably he’d have to take the stairs up now, too. Well, it wouldn’t be too much longer.

He glanced at himself in the mirror and couldn’t help thinking he looked good, his hair shiny and his cheeks still flushed with the heat of the shower and then the hair dryer. Too bad he had nobody to appreciate it. It had felt so good to let himself imagine Jack was attracted to him.

He pulled open the door and found himself face-to-face with the man he most wanted to avoid. Who was holding his phone.

“Jack! I thought you’d left,” Eric said.

“No,” Jack said. “Lardo said she had to go meet Shitty. She asked me to give you this.” He held out Eric’s phone. “And we weren’t done talking yet.”

Eric tucked the phone into his pocket and said, “I was done. I said I can’t be friends with you.”

“OK,” Jack said. “But we’re still neighbors, right? Let me give you a ride home so you don’t have to take the bus.”

“The bus is fine,” Eric said.

“But I’m here, and I’m literally driving to the building where you live,” Jack said. “At least, from what I hear, where you live for the next couple of weeks?”

Eric felt his face flush a deeper red.

“Yeah,” he said. “My lease is up at the end of the month.”

He started walking towards the exit, Jack following behind. Really, Jack was right. He might as well take a quick, comfortable ride since they were going the same place. It was better than having to stand in the dark and cold at the side of the road. 

“So why don’t you renew?” Jack asked. “It’s not because of me. You shouldn’t have to leave because I made you uncomfortable. It’s a nice building, close to the bakery.”

“I know, I know,” Eric groaned. “Don’t remind me. But it’s out of my price range. When I moved in, I sublet from the old bakery manager, and she didn’t make me pay the full rent. But to take over the lease on my own, it’s just too expensive.”

Jack was quiet for a moment. Finally, as they approached his car, he asked, “Did you find anything today?”

“Good Lord, no,” Bitty said and settled into the passenger seat, which was already warming up. Eric thought he’d like to bake a pie for whoever invented seat warmers. “They were all _awful._ Too dark, too small, too far, whatever. I know it’s my own fault for leaving it so late. I was going to start looking before Christmas, but … I didn’t, and then I was gone. Lardo said she’d help me look tomorrow.”

“Can I help somehow?” Jack said. “Maybe get a real estate agent to look for you? Or help you figure out what fits your budget?”

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “Real estate agents don’t usually pay much mind to crappy little studios. And Lardo did convince me I should ask for a raise. I know I deserve one; the bakery is making more than 30 percent more since I started.”

“Then yeah, you probably should ask for one,” Jack said. “Then you can afford more.”

“If I got another $3 an hour, I could almost afford the studio I have now,” Eric said. “But there’s no way I could come up with two extra months’ rent at once.”

“Last month and security?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. Usually when you move out of a place, you at least get your old deposit back and can use that money, but I didn’t have one here because it was a sublet,” Eric said. 

Jack parked in the building’s garage and said, “Maybe I could help you work something out with the management? I’ve been here a while, and, well, I think they like having me as a tenant.”

Yeah, they probably did, Eric thought. Star player for the only high-profile professional sports team in town, and at the same time, someone who was clearly not a risk cause any damage from wild partying. Maybe the reason Eric’s apartment was so small was that Jack’s was so big.

“I don’t know. Let me ask for the raise first,” Eric said. “I can always sleep on Lardo’s couch if it doesn’t work.”

They got out and walked toward the elevator together. After Eric pressed the button, Jack looked at him, took a breath, and said, “So why can’t we be friends? Because it seems like we get along fine together.”

****************************

Jack held his breath and waited. Had he pushed too hard? Would Eric turn and head for the stairs? Or worse, leave the building? But he wanted to ask the question, and he didn’t want to wait until they were in the elevator, where Eric might feel trapped, or upstairs, where Eric could just leave him in the hallway again.

When Eric stared resolutely at the closed elevator door, Jack tried again. “I really like you, Eric. I want to be friends. I had fun with you, and I thought you had fun with me.”

The doors slid open, and Jack waited for Eric to enter before following behind him. As soon as Jack was past the door, Eric pressed the button for the sixth floor and turned to face him. 

“I really like you too,” he said. “And I had fun with you. And I've tried to be mad at you and convince myself it's all your fault that it won't work out, but aside from that one instance of you taking the whole privacy thing too far, you've been nothing but kind.”

“‘It’s not you, it’s me’? Even I've heard that one before,” Jack said. “But usually it's followed up by, ‘At least we can still be friends.’ But you don’t even want that. I mean, I get it. I really don’t have any friends outside of hockey.”

Eric stepped out of the elevator when the doors opened and stopped outside Jack’s door. “I promise it’s not you,” Eric said. “You're wonderful. You’re perfect. You’re kind and generous and thoughtful and weirdly funny sometimes, and I absolutely cannot spend any more time with you!”

“Tell me why, then,” Jack pleaded. “Maybe I can fix it.”

Eric sighed and looked down and looked up and finally said, “Fine. I'm moving anyway. I can’t, because I went and caught feelings for you, and being friends won't be enough. It was fine when we were just seeing each other in the elevator, you were just my stupidly gorgeous neighbor that I could admire without coming closer. Then I convinced myself that you were so far out of my league that it would be OK, that we could hang out, and my silly crush would go away, but then you turned out to be so … you, and then it hurt so much when you said we were just neighbors, even though it was really _true_ , and I just can't --

“No, it wasn’t,” Jack said.

“What? What wasn’t what?” Eric asked.

“It wasn’t true,” Jack said. “We weren't just neighbors. At the very least, we were getting to be friends, and I shouldn't have been so worried about the team chirping that I tried to hide it.”

“I thought you said they didn't care?” Eric asked carefully.

“I said they didn't mind that I'm not straight, not that they won’t try to embarrass me in front of whoever I'm trying to date,” Jack said. “I was afraid they’d scare you off. They were ready to plan the wedding.”

“You forget I was on a hockey team, Mr. Zimmerman,” Eric said. “But the important part was, you were trying to date me?”

Jack looked at Eric, looking up at him with wide eyes, his cheeks still pink. 

“Apparently not doing a very good job of it,” Jack shook his head ruefully. 

He inched closer, and said, “I was hoping to meet up with you after the game that night, maybe get a good-night kiss?”

“Like this?” Eric said, rising on his toes to press his lips to Jack’s for a moment before subsiding.

“Maybe,” Jack said. “Maybe more like this.” He cupped Eric's chin in one hand, wrapping the other arm around his back, and bent to give him a kiss that was sweet and tender, and, he hoped, promising. 

“For the record,” Jack whispered into his hair, “I think you’re beautiful and strong and brave, and the more I find about you, the more I find to admire. And I did Google you, so I probably know more about you than I should.”

Eric cringed. “Oh, God, Jack! You've seen high-school me! That is so not fair!”

“Come and have dinner with me and I’ll show you embarrassing baby pictures?”

“Wait. Do you have any actual food?” Eric asked.

**********************

Jack’s kitchen was surprisingly well-stocked, but then, he had been living on his own for years, so it made sense that he’d learned to cook.

That didn’t stop Eric from taking over, running back to his own apartment for spices and other ingredients -- and to quickly text Lardo. _Having dinner with my neighbor!!!!!_

He sautéed chicken breasts (Jack’s) with a combination of lemons (Jack’s), shallots (Eric’s) and fresh garlic (Eric’s) with a brown rice pilaf and steamed vegetables while Jack helped by chopping and slicing and washing the prep dishes.

“I’m sorry,” Eric apologized, putting an apple crumble in the oven to bake while they ate. “I just took over your kitchen, and I didn’t even ask. But in my defense, it’s a very nice kitchen.”

Jack sniffed at the chicken and said, “Are you in this for me or my kitchen? Seriously, don’t apologize. This smells great. You can cook here whenever you want.” 

When they sat at Jack’s table, Jack broached the subject of Eric moving again.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked. “That’s the first thing to decide.”

Eric grimaced and shook his head.

“Not really,” he said. “I like my apartment. It’s small, but it's got great light, the kitchen is adequate and I can't beat the location.”

“Near the bakery?” 

“Down the hall from my boyfriend,” Eric said. “Uh … if that’s what you want to be. I mean, it’s OK, we haven't really --”

“Yeah, sounds good to me,” Jack said. “In that case, talk to a the guy who owns the bakery, and let me come with you to talk to the management here. It costs them money to have the apartment turn over. I'm sure we can work something out, and if you're still short I can --”

“Do not say you’ll pay it for me,” Eric said. “I like you, and I want you to like me, and I want that to continue for a long time. I don’t think starting off like that’s a good idea.”

“-- get the Falconers to buy a few dozen pies from you?” Jack said. “And maybe you should bring one or two to the meeting with the management company?”

“I could do that,” Eric said. “Do you really think it will work?”

“We can try,” Jack said.

*******************************

After closing the door behind Eric, Jack turned back to the kitchen to finish cleaning up, only to realize there was nothing left to be done. He and Eric had cleared the table and taken care of the dishes together, Eric asking about Jack’s family and giggling into his sleeve when Jack pulled up the picture of his infant self pooping in the Stanley Cup.

“I guess that beats my embarrassing vlogs, where I talked about every crush I ever had, thinking I was being so subtle,” Eric said. “I keep thinking I should go back and delete those, but somehow, I never do. I mean, the recipes are good for beginners, and I guess they just remind me of how far I’ve come?”

“Don’t delete them,” Jack said. “You were adorable.”

“Jack, no one is adorable at 15.”

“You were.”

“Fine,” and Eric had pulled him close and kissed him. “Mind, I don’t believe you … but I believe you think so. Bless you, you’re biased.”

Jack kissed him again and said, “Maybe so. Must be because your pie’s so good.”

When even Eric couldn’t find anything else to clean, Jack was about to suggest putting something on to watch when Eric said, “It’s getting late, and I have to be up at 4, so I’d better go. The next day’s a day off for me.”

Jack grinned. “Me too. I have a game tomorrow, though. Can you come? And come down after, so I can introduce you properly?”

“Sure,” Eric said. “I’d like that.”

Jack walked Eric to his door and kissed him goodnight for real, the longest, deepest kiss they had shared yet. 

“I’ll make you a sandwich and leave it for you,” Eric said. 

“In the hall?” Jack asked.

Eric’s eyes darted around. There were only three more apartments on the floor, and most people worked regular hours. “It’ll be fine,” he said.

“Here,” Jack said, handing him a key. “I’m not asking you to move in or anything -- maybe someday, when it’s time -- but I am giving you kitchen privileges. Any time you need more space to cook or anything, feel free.”

When Jack got back and checked the kitchen, he saw that Eric had left it cleaner than when he started, if that was possible. He’d also left a half-dozen jars and bottles with spices and and herbs and such. Jack ran his fingers over them, glad of the evidence that Eric really had been here, cooking with him, flirting with him, kissing him. And Eric intended to be here again.

Jack went to bed and slept better than he had in weeks.

****************************

When Eric showed up outside the Falconers’ locker room, he scrubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans and then used his fingers to push his hair back into place.

Suddenly, he was nervous. The Falconers had lost a tough game to the Penguins, and he didn’t know what the mood of the team would be. His idea of bringing mini-pies for the team -- in a cooler at his feet -- now seemed like it might be too much. Too presumptuous maybe? He’d thought it would a fun way to introduce himself. But maybe they weren’t in the mood for fun.

Eric nodded at the security guard, who knocked before opening the door. “Guest coming in,” she said.

Eric decided to leave the mini-pies in the hallway. He stepped past the guard and said, “Uh, hi, y’all.”

This time, it was Jack who got up to greet him. He was already showered and mostly dressed.

“Hi, Eric,” he said, and took his hand. “Everyone, this is Eric.”

The room was quieter than the last time Eric was there, and what conversation was going on stopped. Players looked up, some nodded, others made vague sounds of greeting. Tater leapt up and said, “Little baker! You have pie?”

Eric grinned.

“They’re in the hall,” he said. “I just brought mini-pies.”

“I’ll get them!” Tater opened the door and pulled the cooler in.

“So, guys,” Jack said. “Eric and I are dating.”

“About time,” Guy said. “I wondered if you’d ever get around to it.”

“Good for you,” Marty said. “Give me one of those pies? I could use something to distract me from that game.”

“Tough loss,” Eric said. “Y’all played well, though.”

Marty grimaced and looked towards Snowy, who was sitting by himself on the end of the bench.

“We all should have played better,” he said. “But maybe we’ll get them next time.”

Jack let go of Eric’s hand and turned to finish putting his gear away. Tater, at least, didn’t miss the appreciative look on Eric’s face as Jack bent over his bag. He elbowed Eric and said, “So, you have plans for Zimmboni tonight?”

Eric felt his face turn bright red.

“Uh, not really? I took an Uber to get here, so Jack said he’d drive me home, but we really didn’t have anything planned.”

“You want to go for a drink then?” Tater asked, apparently not expecting a real answer.

Jack straightened, smirked at Eric’s expression, and said, “Not tonight, Tater. Eric’s been up since four this morning, and he needs his sleep. Ready, Eric?”

Eric nodded, and felt warmth spread through him from the place on his back where Jack’s hand rested, guiding him out of the locker room and into the corridor that led to the players’ parking lot.

At least he probably couldn’t blush any more. “Jack, y’know I don’t have to go to sleep right away. I can sleep in tomorrow,” he said.

“I know,” Jack said. “But I wasn’t ready to share you with the team just yet. I was hoping maybe you would come to mine? Or I could come to yours?”

“Yours is fine,” Eric said, sliding into the passenger seat. 

They rode home and then upstairs in the elevator in almost complete silence.

Jack unlocked his door and said, “Can I get you a drink? A beer? Water? Tea?”

“Lord, Jack, the last thing I need is caffeine right now,” Eric said. 

“Herbal tea,” Jack said. “No caffeine.”

“Fine, some of that then,” Eric said, and sat on the couch.

Jack carried two mugs over and sat next to him.

“Come here,” he said, reaching to put an arm around Eric.

Eric scooted closer and reached up to stroke Jack’s jaw, feeling the soft skin and the rough stubble. He ran his thumb over Jack’s lips -- so smooth -- and reached up for a kiss.

Jack kissed him gently, then pulled back. “So did you Google me?”

“I thought about it,” Eric said. “But I had two dozen mini-pies to make. What do you want me to know?”

“You know I went to rehab, right?”

Eric nodded.

“Well, it wasn't for cocaine or anything like that. I have anxiety, and I overdosed on my meds.”

Eric felt his eyes go wide, and he hoped his expression conveyed sympathy and concern, not pity.

“Anyway, I ended up playing in Europe for a year before entering the draft again,” Jack said. “I was nowhere near as hot of a commodity, but the Falconers picked me up in the late first round. For the first couple of years, it was like I had people following me around waiting for me to fall apart, or get caught with a boy, I guess. I'm not sure if it would have been a better story if it was a teammate or a rival player.”

Eric cocked an eyebrow at him. “Kent Parson and I played together in juniors, and there were rumors about us.” Jack looked away. “Those rumors were mostly right. But it was never anything that was going to last -- we were teenagers -- and then when I OD’d I kind of went silent on him, and he tracked me down overseas and we both said some things we shouldn't have.”

“I'm so sorry,” Eric said. “Did that have anything to do with what happened?”

“Not anything he did specifically,” Jack said. “But I was already anxious, and there was so much pressure that being in a relationship that had to be secret didn't help.”

Eric sat back slightly. “How is this different?” he said carefully. 

“I'm older, and I've proved myself,” Jack said. “No one can say I can't play hockey. I have friends on my team and in the league who will have my back. The world’s changed, too. You're not Kent. But you should think about how public you want this to be, or if you really want it at all. People will have things to say about you -- to say to you -- if they know we're dating, and not all of it will be kind.”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend, Jack Zimmermann?” Eric asked.

“Yes, of course,” Jack said. 

“Then I'm in,” Eric said. He leaned up into Jack, wrapping his arms around Jack’s neck and hauling himself over until he was straddling Jack’s lap. Eric traced Jack’s lips with his tongue, licking into Jack’s mouth when his lips parted and stroking Jack’s hair. Jack tightened his grip on Eric, one hand on his lower back and the other around his shoulders.

Then Eric broke away, his face splitting in a wide yawn.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry --” he started.

Jack looked up at him and said, “Don’t apologize. You’re tired. Would you -- Do you want to maybe sleep here with me tonight? We can go to bed, just to sleep.”

“You remember my apartment is literally down the hall?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “But I want to fall asleep with you.”

******************************

Jack woke for the second time the next morning and stretched.

He couldn’t remember ever feeling better.

Sure, there were ached and pains from the game, but as hard as it had been -- as tough as it was to lose -- it hadn’t been physically brutal. And he felt relaxed, physically and mentally.

He looked at Eric, still asleep, half curled on his side, tucked against Jack. Jack had been as good as his word; he’d handed Eric a clean toothbrush, they’d stripped down to their underwear and Eric had lain down with his head on Jack’s chest and their legs tangled together. Jack had stroked the short hair behind Eric’s ear while he heard and felt Eric’s breathing become slow and deep.

The night before, Jack had watched Eric climb into bed, all lean lines and lithe strength. “You are beautiful, you know,” Jack had murmured when Eric settled.

“Look who’s talking,” Eric had said.

Jack had awakened when Eric stirred in the darkness of the predawn. When Eric slid carefully out of the bed, Jack had held his breath, hoping Eric wasn’t going to leave. But Eric just went to the bathroom. Jack heard the toilet flush and the water run, then Eric was back, smiling a little ruefully when he saw that Jack’s eyes were open.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s OK,” Jack said. “Come here.”

Eric had, and they had kissed, and their hands had wandered, and after a time, they had been naked in the bed together. Jack had ended up on top of Eric, lining their cocks up and getting a hand around them. It hadn’t taken long for either of them.

Then Jack had gotten up to clean up, brought a warm washcloth back for Eric, and they had fallen back asleep snuggled together again.

This, he thought, was something he could definitely get used to. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlookfrightened)!


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